


Weave Me A Myrtle Crown

by AJRedfern



Series: An Empire That Forgets To Collapse. [1]
Category: The 100
Genre: AU - Modern Setting, AU - Reincarnation, AU - Roman gods and godesses, F/M, Inspired by other works, Rated Explicit for later chapters, Vulcan/Venus, am also borrowing shamelessly from chicago fire, but also dude this has more sex than anything i've ever written so..., firefighter!Bellamy, i think i've butchered roman mythology and i apologise in advance, my first au omg, ok basically the majority of the Delinquents are firefighters?, paramedic!clarke, trigger warning: depictions of abuse (not graphic but they're there)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 79,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7128977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJRedfern/pseuds/AJRedfern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's not a woman easily shaken - she has a reputation of being 'logical, level-headed if a little cold-blooded'.</p><p>And then she gets assigned as the new Paramedic In Charge to Firehouse 82.</p><p>Amidst the people she's starting to call her friends, is Bellamy Blake: heroic firefighter, exemplary Lieutenant, complete asshole. Normally, this would have been fine - it's not the first time she's had to work with someone she despised.</p><p>Except dreams keep plaguing her.</p><p>Dreams that start the day she first met him. Dreams of a different life, a different time, a different world. Dreams of him, of her, of them. Dreams that start to feel like memories.</p><p>Yeah, her carefully constructed facade isn't going to survive Firehouse 82.</p><p> </p><p>  <strong> *Runnerup for the Bellarke Fanfiction 2016 Awards for Best WIP* </strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bathe Me in Your Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but Kels ([ebbnfloww](http://ebbnfloww.tumblr.com)) put so much into this fic, she basically co-wrote it, okay?
> 
> Her original work inspired this idea, her beautiful edits that followed gave me so much life, her unwavering support when I was panicking at all hours, her untiring beta-ing skills and her endless patience with a temperamental, prone-to-yelling writer. She's amazing. Seriously. Thank you babe!
> 
> Originally inspired by[ this](http://ebbnfloww.tumblr.com/tagged/Rome-AU) and then because Kels is an awesome muse, she also made [this](http://ebbnfloww.tumblr.com/tagged/Firefighter%21Bellamy) for Firefighter!Bellamy and Paramedic!Clarke and [this](http://ebbnfloww.tumblr.com/tagged/Venus-x-Vulcan) for a modern inspired Venus/Vulcan. 
> 
> Oh, and I may have also butchered Roman mythology and borrowed shamelessly from Chicago Fire. You have been warned :/
> 
> Hey readers? I love you guys and I have missed you *blows kisses*

**_Prologue_ **

_It is time._

_The closed high doors are highly polished wood, inlaid with glittering topaz, and behind them lay her fate._

_The thought clenches her belly but she keeps her head held high._

_She is, after all, the physical manifestation of desire and lust._

_Her face is hidden by the ceremonial mask but the thorns in the rose crown they have woven her, prick her scalp. They have covered her entire body with crushed iridescent pearl dust and have left her hair unbound to flow down her back in long perfumed waves. The web of gold links hang heavy on her neck and warm against her bared breasts. The only claim to modesty she has is the fabric that falls from the heavy gold belt on her hips, skimming the top of her thighs. But the rich fabric is sheer enough that it hides nothing and she thinks she might as well go without._

_She has never had much use for modesty in the past and it seems foolish to start now._

_With every step, pearl dust turns the air around her sparkling and she is accompanied by the musical clink of gold against gold and preceded by the scent of roses and myrtle._

_She is Venus, goddess of love and beauty and her body is a weapon wrapped in the guise of a gift. She is beautiful and desirable and mortals would lay themselves prostrate before her so her feet would never touch the ground._

_And her heart is bleak and cold._

_The doors open and she steps in._

_Ruby-red drapes fall from the ceiling, shifting gently in the wind. The air in here is perfumed with incense and the sweet scent adds to the wine in her blood. Then the undulating fall of red silk billows back and she sees him._

_He's standing at the side of the bed, facing her, surrounded by candles and framed by the torches on the wall._

_Her steps falter._

_All he wears are the ceremonial mask and gold paint._

_So, this is Vulcan, Lord of Fire and Blacksmith to the Gods._

_This is her husband._

They said he was disfigured and ugly, s _he thinks._

_It would not change a thing if he was and she still has not seen his face but she thinks they are fools._

_Yes, there is no delicacy to his body, none of the slender refinement the upper echelon so prided themselves in._

_But there is beauty in his heavy shoulders and veined arms, in his carved chest and ridged stomach, in his powerful thighs. Then she comes close enough to see the raised scar that the gold paint cannot hide, running down from his right hip down to his knee, sees the mangled flesh below his knee, and thinks, '_ Fools, each and every one of them.'

_There is beauty in her husband - it is raw and angry and Venus thinks that it is a sad creature indeed that cannot understand that beauty does not only lie in smooth skin and unmarred flesh._

_'Are you ready?' she asks._

_Her voice is low and husky and she watches in fascination as a vein ripples in his forearm._

_'Yes.' His voice is slightly muffled by his mask but it still carries the darkness of night and the heat of a forge._

_Then his chest expands in a deep indrawn breath and he finally moves towards her._

_She stares down at the hand he offers her, broad and long fingered, calluses marring the paint, before she slips her own into his. His fingers close around hers and the heat from his palm shoots up her arm, settling in her belly to mix with the wine-induced warmth. He squeezes her hand gently and the unexpected comfort in his touch is a balm on her heart._

_'Did you drink the wine?' she whispers._

_'Almost a cask and not nearly enough.'_

_Her head snaps up and her eyes meet the gaze behind the mask._

_His eyes are dark._

_Affronted?' his voice is amused, 'Have I offended the great goddess of beauty by implying that even Juno's marital wine will not be enough to make me desire you?'_

_Her eyes narrow._

_Yes, there is a prick of affront - she has had mortals and gods, men and women, beg for her touch. But for the most part, she is intrigued._

_Who is the heart and mind that beats behind that mask?_

_I will need to change that if we wish for the night to pass.' she replies archly._

_His low laugh comes as a surprise. 'I will endeavour.'_

_She has never met a challenge she has not won._

_She takes a swift step towards him and sees the way his body tightens._

' _Afraid I might bring the stoic Blacksmith to his knees?' she purrs and her smile behind the mask is sly._

 _'_ _Goddess, Jupiter himself cannot bring me to my knees.'_

_His words can be considered blasphemy but Venus has heard the stories._

_Vulcan is a law unto himself._

_But he has not met with the likes of her._

_She lays a hand on his chest, feels the beat of his heart strong against her fingers, his flesh warm under her palm._

_It is a good start._

_So she steps into him, presses herself to the length of his body and is gratified when his hand tightens against hers. She rests her forehead on his shoulder, breathes in his scent, and smirks when her breasts press into his chest with her indrawn breath and his body tenses._

_She slips her hand out of his and runs it up his arm, feeling the muscles coil under her fingers. His hand comes up to rest on her hips, thumb stroking the dip of her waist and she momentarily loses her train of thought when the desire to lean into his touch hits her hard._

_Stepping back, she smiles when his body jerks forward as if to follow her before he draws back abruptly with a short laugh. His eyes follow her movements as she moves towards the bed, gold clinking with each deliberate sway of her hips._

_Regardless of her status - or perhaps because of it - Venus has never been deliberate in her seduction of another for the challenge. It may be the wine, it may be the man standing in front of her, it may be the adrenaline of the challenge itself or perhaps it is a combination of all but gods help her, lust has never threatened to consume her whole. When she's on her back, glimmering thighs cocked, her hand slipping down between them, she already knows it won't take long._

_The guttural sound that comes from him has her arching into her fingers and her eyes flicks down her body to seek him out._

_He has not moved from his position but his hands have turned into fists at his side, and the sight of his powerful body almost vibrating and framed between her spread legs, tears a helpless moan from her throat. His eyes snaps from her hand to meet her gaze and sweat breaks out across her body as her hips buck. He holds her eyes, hard and glittering, and tension stretches between them until it becomes a string pulled too taut and_ snaps.

_She does not know who moves first._

_She comes up off the bed just as he breaks, snapping forward and catching her._

_He's hard and hot against her belly and when her slick fingers find and wrap around him, his body shudders against her. She has a moment to curse the masks, to want to feel him heavy on her tongue, before a hand clamps on the back of her thigh, lifting it to wrap around his hip, bringing her to her toes. She loses her grip on him then loses further thought when he slides a finger, wide, long,_ perfect, _into her._

_Her neck snaps back and when he withdraws and thrusts again in a slow deliberate glide, she moans, long and desperate._

_Her hips tilt forward and she can feel the smooth surface of his mask against the side of her breast when he drops his head to rest on her chest. Something about his gesture makes it harder to breathe but when his hand increases in tempo, she thrusts a hand into his hair and loses herself to the feeling. Her vision swims as the pressure builds in her and she needs_ more.

_The thought barely takes root when one finger becomes two. Her lungs close as her body clenches around his fingers and she flies apart._

_Her back hits cool sheets, his heat and weight presses her down and she is still climaxing when he pushes into her, hard and desperate. Her back arches, feet planting in the bed as her hips tilt to take him deeper and her cry chokes in her throat as her hands coming up to sink her nails into his shoulders. His muffled snarl when her slick inner muscles constrict around his length has her eyes snapping open and she almost flies apart again at the look in his dark eyes._

_Wild. Violent. Consuming._

_She braces for a hard ride, but he stills above her. His hand comes up to her throat, thumb brushing against her rapid pulse, as he lets her adjust to the size and feel of him. She closes her eyes, the gentle touch of his hand seeming to connect her more to him than the physicality of their union. But closed eyes cannot deny the heat of him between her legs._

_'Hold on to me.'_

_His voice is harsh and at odds with the way he gently twines his fingers with hers, drawing it up above her head._

_Her heart beat, which had barely slowed, rises again, and she hooks a leg around his hip, her other hand clamping tight on his shoulder. She feels his muscles tense and coil and at his first stroke, she bites down on the moan rising in her throat._

_Two more strokes, deep but slow, has her pounding her fist against his shoulder in impatience._

_'You will not hurt me.' she gasps out._

_He laughs but it is hoarse and strained. 'Who said I was worried about hurting you?'_

_The bastard, she thinks in delight._

_'Have at it then, Fire God.' she laughs, tightening her muscles around him and smiling impishly behind the mask at his growl._

_'I have married a demon.' he mutters above her._

_'It could have been wor - '_

_He slams into her._

_Her mouth opens in a silent moan as she arches into him. She only has time to glare into his amused, hot eyes before he bends his neck forward, withdraws and does it again. Even with the advanced warning, the feeling still leaves her breathless, still has her scrambling for purchase. Her world becomes narrowed to the pressure building in her again, to the feel of his flesh under her hands, the heat of him pushing into her body. His thrusts begin to lose their rhythm as he begins to lose the hold on his control and she wants nothing more._

_'You will not hurt me.' she whispers again._

_His body tenses._

_Then his hand lets go of hers, clamps around her hip, pressing her down into the bed. He shifts up her body, one hard thigh sliding under hers, pushing it up and out, as he anchors himself and lets go._

_The air turns static and she finds herself lost, wild, scrambling to meet his brutal pace, nails digging into his back, leaving grooves in the hard flesh, not bothering to bite back her moans this time. He snarls at the stinging pain but does not stop and she thinks that she would kill him if he did._

_It's too much and all at once, not enough and she thinks she is going to lose her mind._

_She arches up, bucks hard and takes advantage of his surprise, dislodging him, pushing him to his back and straddling him. She leans forward, her weight on his shoulders and her heart stutters again when his fingers wrap around her elbows to steady her, gentle, strong hands on her skin.._

_Then she straightens, sinks down on him and his groan mixes with her own._

_She keeps her eyes on his as her hips move, watches him as she rides him. When his hands leave her hips to press hot palms to her stomach, she raises her arms to lift her hair away from her chest, to give him an unhindered view. She is rewarded with a harsh curse and long, hot fingers sliding under the links of her necklace to cup her breasts. She presses into them, looks down to see that his hands have painted her belly and breasts gold and her rhythm turns desperate. For the first time, she notices that the coat of paint has become gold streaks on rich, brown skin and she clamps tight around him._

_His eyes sear into her and she hates these masks, hates what they are depriving her of._

_She wants his mouth on hers, wants to taste him, wants to take him as her body takes him._

_Then his eyes narrow, she feels him swell against her walls, and he knifes up to a sitting position. She flings an arm around his shoulders to keep from falling back and his arm bands around her waist, the other hooking under her arm to dig long fingers into her shoulder._

_His hips snap up and she throws her head back, his hold on her shoulder bearing her down. The pressure in her belly coils too tightly and she no longer cares for ceremony._

_She raises desperate fingers to the knot under her hair, yanks at it and her mask tumbles off, cool air rushing against her face. She pays no attention to the way his body tenses under hers, too far gone, reaches around him, tears the tie free and rips the mask from him._

_But he is beautiful._

_It is her last thought before her mind shatters._

_Her body bows back violently with the force of her climax and it is his name that is torn from her lips, his face she sees in her mind's eye as her world unravels, as his arms clamp around her, holding her together as her body threatens to fly apart._

_She has never fought against the waves of climax, but she does now, tearing herself free out of its grasp as soon as the strongest hit passes so that she can look at him again._

_She lifts a hand to trace the tiny scar above his wide mouth, fascinated, and leans forward to press her lips against his, catching the shift in his eyes. She begins to move again, shuddering when he jerks into her in response. Then his mouth opens, he licks into her and her nails break skin at the first taste of him - slick and warm, ash and life._

_And he breaks, swelling in her and flooding her with heat as she rocks her hips to his mindless pace, swallowing his groans down her throat._

_They remain motionless as their hearts begin to slow, arms wrapped around each other, as their kisses turn from ravenous to gentle._

_She leans back against his hands on her back and meets his eyes, smiles as she traces her fingers across his star-dusted cheekbones, the curve of his eyes, the line of his jaw, returning back to the scar above his kiss-swollen lips._

_'Fools, every one of them.' she whispers._

_That wide mouth quirks in a half-smile and his hand tightens in her hair to tilt her head down._

_She follows willingly and leans forward to kiss her husband._

 

****** Chapter 1 ******

 

'Keep moving and I'll stitch your ear to your shoulder.'

'Fuck you, Griffin.'

Clarke's lips twitch as she continues working on Octavia's shoulder, cleaning the bullet graze. Around them, Arkadia's finest milled around them, cordoning off the scene, speaking to witnesses. On the other side, Clarke's partner works on another police officer.

She ignores the voices, the squawks of open radio lines and focuses on her patient.

There's a butterfly bandage over the brunette's cheekbone and her jaw is already starting to show signs of bruising.

Despite knowing Octavia Blake all of five minutes and despite the plainclothes cop's grouching, she quite liked her.

Built like a china doll and lethal as a viper, with the temper of a bear.

'Are you done yet?' Octavia sighs, 'I'm fine, its just a graze - I didn't even get hit.'

'I know what it was, Officer.' Clarke murmurs, pressing down padding and taping over the wound. She leaned over to throw the medical tape into the open kit and stepped back, snapping off her gloves, 'And yes, I am.'

'Thank God.' Octavia hops down, wincing as she pulls on her leather jacket.

'Try not to get it wet,' Clarke instructs as she begins throwing equipment back into the giant medical kit set on the floor of the ambulance, 'keep applying that ointment and if it gets septic -'

'See a doctor.' Octavia mutters, fingers adjusting her cuffs, 'This isn't my first rodeo.'

'You know,' Clarke says wryly, 'that actually doesn't surprise me at all.'

The brunette sneers at her and Clarke has to bite back a laugh.

But then Octavia huffs out a breath and shifts restlessly on her feet, 'Hey.' she says suddenly, 'Thanks. For, you know,' she waves vaguely at her shoulder, 'patching me up.'

Clarke throws her a smile over her shoulder, 'Just doing my job, Officer.'

Octavia grins. 'You sound like my brother. He -'

'O!'

At the voice, the epi-pen that Clarke had picked up falls from her fingers as a strange current lifting the hairs on the back of her neck.

Husky. Dark. Rough. Hard.

Spinning around, she gets a fleeting look at messy black hair and slashing cheekbones before the guy grabs Octavia up in a hug, his face hidden by the curve of her shoulder.

This is the brother?

'Bell, I'm okay.' Octavia protests, voice muffled, but her arms come around to wrap around his waist as she returns the hug.

Then he lifts his head and over Octavia's shoulder, his eyes hit Clarke.

They're dark and liquid, long lidded and fiercely relieved.

But when they focus on her, they widen and the relief bleeds out as his eyes turn hot and glittering.

She stands there, pinned in place by that gaze, and she hasn't even fully seen his face but those eyes - she _knows_ those eyes.

The edges of her vision shimmer strangely and -

_Firelight flicking over brown skin, a hot body sliding against her own, long fingers pressing her wrists down into the sheets._

'Bell, let me go!'

Octavia's voice slams into Clarke and she staggers back, light-headed, catching herself on the handle of the open ambulance door.

What the hell was that?

In her peripheral, "Bell" straightens and releases the struggling brunette and Clarke uses his momentary distraction to turn away, heart hammering, breath shaky, her wrist on fire.

She resumes organising the medical kit but her hands, famous for their steadiness in high pressure situations, are trembling and it takes two tries before she can slide the lock home on the kit.

'At least you were wearing your vest this time.'

God, his voice.

Clarke closes her eyes, presses her burning wrist to her fluttering belly. Then her back goes ramrod straight, white-hot awareness slices through her, as she feels his eyes on her back.

'Shut up and get me home.' Octavia snipes. Then - 'Hey.'

Crap.

Clarke sucks in a breath and turns, fixing a polite, profession smile on her face.

She does not look at the man standing next to Octavia, long arm slung around her shoulders.

But she doesn't need to because she can feel his eyes on her - shifting across her face, her hair, sliding down her body to her hips and legs, heavy and warm.

Her body reacts as if he had touched her and Clarke folds her arms across her chest, pulling in air.

'Thanks again.' Octavia grins.

She offers Octavia a weak smile. 'Like I said, my job.'

'Then good job.'

His voice sinks into her blood, warm and deep, and she can't ignore him anymore. Pressing her lips together, Clarke pulls in a breath and finally shifts her gaze to him.

There's nothing gentle about his face - hard curves, raw lines and a wide mouth she wants to trace with her fingers. If he had been any other man, the first thing she would have done when she got home was draw him - sketch those arms in charcoal, capture the shifting light on those hands in acrylics, immortalise the planes of his face in oil.

But nothing she can produce will ever mimic the draw she felt to him.

Undeniable. Raw. Natural.

Except he isn't hers.

That thought in mind, Clarke nods curtly and turns away.

She pretends to be busy as she hears Octavia drag him away. When their voices start to fade, when she no longer feels his eyes on her, Clarke finally looks down at her wrist, rubs at the tattoo that had been inexplicably flaring hot earlier.

The words ' _Tutte le strade portano a Roma_ ' in elegant flowing script, lie against her pale skin, innocuous.

_All roads lead to Rome._

The tattoo had been an allusion to her choice to walk out of the hospital, an year left to her residency.

Art was her true passion but medicine was in her blood. She had wanted to help people, had loved the feeling of being able to offer relief where she could - that feeling was _her_ Rome. But she had come to realise that her heart wasn't in following in her mother's footsteps and becoming a surgeon.

Becoming a paramedic was perhaps the best choice she had ever made. It had provided her more time to work on her art and her work gave her the feeling of accomplishment she loved as a resident - it gave the best of both worlds.

The tattoo, for her, had been hope given a voice.

Now, standing on a sidewalk in uptown suburbia she can't shake the feeling that it had become a warning.

****

The dreams start that night.

She wakes up at two am, heat curling in her belly, breathing harsh, fingers on her neck where she can still feel a mouth hot and open on her throat. She can't remember anything else but her body tells her the nature of the dream and her mind tells her why.

She doesn't sleep for the rest of the night and avoids Finn's eyes the next morning.

****

For two weeks, all she remembers when she wakes in the morning, her body feeling heavy and her skin too tight, are flashes - the feel of a hand, calloused and hard, sliding into hers, teeth playfully nipping the lobe of her ear, a thigh slipping between her own.

Clarke refuses to think of _him._

Refuses to admit that those long dark limbs are his, that the heat on the small of her back in the shape of a palm, right above the curve of her ass, is his.

Then one night, things escalate.

She blames it on the alcohol she had been downing - she could even blame her mother for dragging her to that awards event at the hospital. Clarke had let herself be talked into it because sometimes she got a kick out of murmuring pointed remarks and watching those condescending old men falter trying to figure out if she had meant what she had said. She suspected Abby did too.

Plus free booze.

Only this time, sipping wine turned into shooting tequila at Azgeda where she and the few friends she had made during her residency kept the hot bartender in tips all night. In retrospect, Clarke thinks she should have left the club after the fifth shot instead of testing the boundaries of alcohol poisoning.

Instead, she's staggering through her apartment at four am and after downing enough water to drown a seal, collapses face down into bed. In an alcohol-induced haze, she sees the glow on the wall flicker gently, like her bedside lamp had been exchanged for a candle.

She squints at the wall, dismisses it, closes her eyes.

And dreams.

_She's on her belly, arms stretched out above her head._

_Her heartbeat is a roar in her ears, her head feels fuzzy and her body is screaming. She's ready to beg, ready to give in, but she bites her lip to keep herself from saying the words out loud._

_She won the last time and she is not conceding this round either._

_Then he straddles the back of her thighs, leans forward and the bed depresses as his hand plants itself beside her shoulder. She does not move when his fingers brush her hair away from her back even though she wants to arch into his touch._

_She does not move when she feels his mouth on the nape of her neck, though she has to clench her fists._

_She does not move when his tongue flicks the lobe of her ear, though she has to suppress a shiver._

_She does not move when he shifts against her thighs, moving lower and his mouth follows, pressing soft kisses down her spine, though she has to close her eyes and her breaths start to pick up speed._

_She does not move when his lips become teeth, sinking gently into the curve of her hip, and his hands move down the outside of her thighs, sliding under them, lifting her up until she's leaning her weight on her elbows._

_She does not move, but the desire to win this round is starting to fade._

_She does not move when his mouth -_ finally - _finds her, though her lips part and she's panting now._

_Winning is vastly overrated, she thinks as the burn in her belly flares dangerously, as it licks up her sweat-slick legs, scorching her insides, sends her mind spinning out of control._

_But though he is sovereign over fire, she is the mistress of victory and she will never concede._

_So she stops herself from pushing back against his mouth and clenches her fists in the sheets instead when the burn turns into an inferno. Her head snaps back, blonde waves flying, and she stares unseeing at the walls painted in candlelight and her body starts trembling but words do not fall past her lips._

_Just a little longer._

_There._

_The fire in her explodes, a guttural sound tearing from her throat as the heat wave crashes over her, drowning her, drawing her into the abyss. She falls into it willingly, rises to meet the next wave and lets it drag her into the depths of hot oblivion._

_She's still trying to recover when his hand slides to rest on her belly, the other on her chest and he draws her up into a kneeling position, back to chest, his legs bracketing hers._

_She's weak limbed and lets him take her weight, falling back on his chest._

_He chuckles and the sound rolls through her like thunder. His arms come around her, holding her to him, and he buries his face in her neck. She lifts a hand, shifts her fingers through his hair._

_'How is it when I lose against you,' he murmurs into the side of her neck, 'I still feel I have won?'_

Clarke's eyes fly open.

That voice.

 _His_ voice.

She pushes the heel of her hand into her throbbing temple and resolves never to mix tequila and red wine again. Glaring blearily at the sunlight flooding through her windows, she slumps back down into the bed.

Her eyes go to the empty space beside her.

Thank god for small mercies.

Finn was out of town and even if he hadn't been, she had stopped inviting him to spend the night. They hadn't been together in weeks and if Clarke's being honest with herself, she's relieved.

The last time they had sex, she had felt guilty, felt like she had cheated.

The thing is, it wasn't Finn she felt she had cheated on.

So she stopped inviting him to spend the night, stopped initiating sex, started thinking of ways to break it off, had waffled about her decision because _it didn't make any sense._ She enjoyed Finn's company, he made her smile and something was seriously wrong with her if she was going to let someone perfectly good for her go because of a man who she met only once and whose full name she didn't even know.

She'll give it a while longer, Clarke decides, staring at the ceiling.

It can't get any worse than this.

She's right - the dreams gentle considerably and they come less often as the weeks go past.

Clarke thinks everything is going back to normal.

She was wrong.

****

'You're such a fucking nerd.' Raven coos lovingly at Monty.

The people of Firehouse 82 were crazy.

As the newly assigned Paramedic in Chief of Ambulance 6, Clarke thinks this should worry her.

But it doesn't.

Because it's her first day and Monty Green, her new partner, had hustled her into the common room to meet everyone and now she's sitting at a table with Raven Reyes and Nathan Miller, who kicked out a chair for her, grinning like he had known her for years.

Clarke smiles into her coffee and thinks that she's going to enjoy it here at 82.

Miller grins at Raven's words but his eyes never leave the slender paramedic.

'I know.' Monty winks, 'The earliest fire station dates back to Rome. Like, Ancient Rome. Some -'

'Miller!'

Clarke stills at the voice - a voice she hasn’t heard in months - the hair on the back of her neck standing, and her head wrenches around to the door.

And there he is.

He's just as breathtaking as he was the first time she saw him and memories of her dreams, all the feelings they brought - love, desire, _joy -_ flooded her again as she stared at him.

Black hair curling carelessly around his ears, plain grey t-shirt, jeans, work boots and a backpack slung across a broad shoulder. Those dark, long lidded eyes slice to hers and her insides freeze when they rake across her, taking in her uniform, the neat braid, and his mouth tightens.

He doesn't want her here.

Confusion and dread condenses into a cold, hard ball in the pit of her stomach at the scorn and distaste on his face.

A hand clapping her on the shoulder jerks Clarke out of her bewildered, hurt daze to see Miller rising from his seat.

'Well, that’s me.' Miller says cheerfully, 'Welcome to 82, Clarke.'

'Right.' Clarke replies numbly, 'Warm welcome.'

Miller saunters away and Clarke turns back around, cheeks hot, refusing to look back.

If he doesn't want her around, that's too bad because she's not leaving.

'You know Bellamy?'

Clarke looks up to see Raven watching her with narrowed eyes. 'What?'

'Tall, dark and surly.' Raven jerks her head towards the now empty doorway.

'No.' Clarke swirls the coffee in her cup to give herself something else to focus on. 'No, I don't.'

It felt like she did - god, did it feel like she did - but the reality is, she doesn’t even know his full name.

'Huh.' Raven leans back, runs an assessing eye over her, 'He sure seemed to know you.'

'Raven.' Monty murmurs warningly.

The brunette turns to Monty and bugs out her eyes innocently.

'He doesn't know anything about me.' Clarke snaps.

The words come out sharper than intended and she winces. She really didn't need to sport a shiner on her first day at work and Raven seems like the kind of person who doesn't take kindly to offence.

But all Raven does is arch a dark brow.

'Is he, uh,' Clarke taps a finger against her cup, 'here often?'

Please say no.

Please say he's a visitor of Miller's.

Please say -

'Oh, babe.' Raven's voice is sympathetic, too knowing and it shatters Clarke's hopes, 'That's Lieutenant Bellamy Blake, Rescue Squad 47.'

Of course.

Clarke takes a sip from her cup to hide how her lips are trembling.

The coffee is bitter on her tongue.

She has seen that look on Bellamy's face before. That condescending, I-know-how-you-got-here, scornful look.

As Lieutenant, he would have been briefed on the new Paramedic in Charge assigned to his house. Arkadia's Paramedic Association, Fire Department and Police Department weren't exactly huge - everyone knew or knew someone who knew someone. And Bellamy had, at the very least heard of her, and assumed that Clarke Griffin, daughter of medical royalty Abigail Griffin, had only made PIC because of her connections.

Anger and disappointment burn a path across her chest.

The anger is easier to handle because she's amazing at her job and she'll shove his face in his assumptions soon enough. But the disappointment - oh the disappointment is a slow, all consuming burn because Bellamy Blake is just like the rest of them.

Clarke knows it's her fault, that she shouldn’t have made her own assumptions based on the pull she felt for him, but that doesn’t make the revelation any less bitter.

She was fooled by false hope and empty dreams and a connection she only saw in her head and it’s a bitter, bitter lesson to learn but there she was. Reality is never kind and her reality can be cruel. She put her trust in her heart and _dreams -_ who the hell does that - listened to them when she should have known better. And now that anger and disappointment is near choking her because she listened to that damn _pull_ , despite not knowing a thing about Bellamy.

Bellamy Blake is no different from any other person who had looked at her and had only seen her name. The thing about those people though, is Clarke tears down their expectations of her before leaving them staring at her cold back.

And no stupid, fairy-tale pull she thinks she has to him is going to change that.

Her phone buzzes, and grateful for the distraction, she leans onto a hip and slips the phone from her pocket, glancing at the caller I.D.

Finn.

His image blinks at her but Clarke can't bring herself to answer. She's being a terrible girlfriend and she really needs to work past these ridiculous issues before she messes everything up with him.

'More bad news?' Raven watches her with sharp, dark eyes.

Clarke bites her lip and slips the phone back into her pocket, unanswered. 'My boyfriend.'

'Hmm.' the brunette murmurs, 'More bad news then.'

Before Clarke can say anything further, her phone vibrates again.

Damn.

Throwing Raven and Monty an apologetic look, Clarke takes the phone out, brandishing it at them. 'I better take this.'

Raven tilts her mug. 'Good luck.'

She doesn't make it to the door when the phone stops vibrating. Head down, Clarke hits the speed dial as she pushes open the door with her hip.

'Clarke.'

She turns, steps slowing in surprise when she sees Finn standing just outside the doors, a lone figure on the pavement.

He looks good.

Hair artfully styled back, tailored stone-gray three piece suit, Italian leather loafers, the black wool overcoat she bought him for his birthday. Cool, professional, collected, perfect.

'Hey!' she smiles as she changes directions.

Her smile falters when she remembers that she had ignored his call earlier but it falls completely when she sees the look on his face. His brows are drawn, he's pale and his dark hair bears signs of him carding his fingers through it.

'What happened?' she asks as she nears him.

He takes her hand and his fingers are cold and clammy.

'Can we talk?' he asks, dark eyes bleak, face taut. 'Coffee, maybe?'

'Finn.' she whispers, laying a hand on his chest, 'I can't leave - I'm still on call.'

He nods, raises a hand to rub at his face, 'Right, I'm sorry, I forgot.'

'Finn, what's wrong?'

He smiles but it's sad and it makes Clarke brace, makes her move warily back.

'Clarke,' he begins slowly, 'I -'

'Finn!'

A blur of black and navy blue flies past her and it takes a moment for her to realise that it's Raven who has thrown her arms around Finn's neck, hugging him hard.

Clarke starts to laugh, 'You guys know each -'

Then Raven kisses Finn.

It's not a 'Hi, friend!' peck on the mouth either.

And Clarke realises that maybe she wasn't the only one hiding things.

'You can say that.' Raven laughs, pulling away, 'Finn's my boyfriend.'

She turns and Clarke tries to hide the hurt, tries to recover, but she knows she's not fast enough when Raven's smile turns confused.

The brunette picks up on the atmosphere and her eyes fly to Finn, sees the stricken look on his face. She turns back to Clarke and her face is stiff and cold but her eyes are pleading and disbelieving.

Too late, Clarke tries to bury the guilt before she can read it on her face.

'Oh.' Raven says quietly, eyes falling to the phone clenched in Clarke's hand, 'I see.'

Clarke's heart clenches.

'Raven,' she whispers, 'I swear I didn't know. I'm so sorry -'

'Clarke, can we please talk?'

At Finn's words, Raven's mask slips and the hurt that bleeds through slaps Clarke across the face.

She places a hand carefully on Raven's arm, relieved when the brunette doesn't shake it off, and turns to Finn, 'No.'

Her reply is quiet and final and knows Finn understands what she's saying when his face pales.

'I didn't mean for it to turn out this way.' he pleads, hand out.

Clarke steps back, pulling Raven with her. 'I'm sure. Doesn't change anything.'

'I - Raven,' he turns to the brunette, pleadingly, 'I'm sorry. I love you too -'

Raven's arm stiffens under Clarke's hand.

'I want you to get your shit out of my apartment.' Raven tells him, voice steady. 'I want you gone by the time I get off shift.'

Clarke realises, sick to her stomach, why Finn never really asked to stay the night with her.

God, how the hell does she get herself into these type of messes?

Finn steps forward, dark eyes shining, 'Raven -'

His pleas are cut short when, above them, the alarm light starts flashing, the siren wails and dispatch calls for all hands on deck.

Raven shakes off Clarke's hand, turns to her, 'If you're looking for an apartment,' she says grimly, 'I've got a spare room.' Her eyes slash to Finn, 'Leave the key under the mat.'

Then she's stalking away.

'Clarke.'

The plea in Finn's voice makes her turn to him. She should feel hurt and betrayed - and she does - but there's also relief. If she's being honest with herself, she's more worried about Raven, a woman she had only met not two hours ago. That alone tells her more than guilt over dreams.

She steps back, shaking her head.

It's over.

It's been over between them for a while, it's just official now.

Behind her the sound of feet running on the pavement brings her back into reality.

She has a job to do.

She's only two steps away when Finn grabs her hand.

'I'm sorry, honey.' he whispers. 'Please, let me explain.'

Clarke can hear the sound of truck doors opening and slamming, raised voices, and the urgency builds in her.

She yanks her hand away. 'I can't -'

'Griffin!'

She spins around at the bark and sees Bellamy Blake, one leg on a truck step, already in protective gear, helmet in hand, mouth in a hard line.

Shit.

'Get your ass moving!' he snaps before he swings into the cabin of the truck and disappears from sight.

Her cheeks flame.

Clarke grits her teeth, shakes off Finn's hand and sprints.

'You okay?' Monty asks quietly as he pulls out behind the trucks.

She glances at him as she wrenches the seatbelt over herself. His eyes are sweet and kind and Clarke realises that he's asking simply because he can tell she's upset.

'Yeah.' she breathes out.

She looks in the rear view mirror of the ambulance, watching Finn's figure grow smaller, framed by the huge station garage.

He still looks good.

But, Clarke notes, he no longer looks like part of her world.

****

'Hell of a first shift.' Monty holds out his fist and Clarke bumps it with her own, a grin spreading across her face.

She had responded to fires before, worked with firefighters on calls, but it hadn't felt like this.

It was different, working with them as a team, assessing possible injuries to victims and to their own, feeling their eyes seek her out as they come hurtling out of the burning building, arms covering the heads of the rescued.

Firehouse 82, craziness aside, was a slick team as Clarke had witnessed first hand. Battalion Fire Chief Kane was the definition of cool-under-fire and his trust in his Lieutenants was apparent. Clarke had been to scenes where the Chief was constantly directing and re-directing their teams but it seems like the Truck and Rescue teams of 82 had escaped that fate. It took Clarke one response call to understand why Miller and Bellamy (though the latter she had to admit grudgingly) had made Lieutenant.

Bellamy was a judgemental ass, but the man was damned good at his job.

The fire had been stamped out, no lives were lost, and no further damage had been done to the surrounding buildings. Clarke knows that they wouldn't be this successful in all their calls, but she'd take her victories where she could.

She's still riding the high as she rounds the ambulance to follow Monty into the house.

'Hey, Princess!'

Her high takes a nose-dive.

Clarke bites her tongue and pastes a stiff smile on her face before turning around.

 _It's your first day_ , she reminds herself, _be polite. Tomorrow, you can rip into him._

Bellamy jumps down from the truck, heavy boots hitting the ground with a thud, the suspenders hanging from his hips clinking.

He stalks over to her.

'Listen, I get it's your first day.' he says, jaw clenched, 'But in our line of work, response time is everything and distraction means people can die. So deal with your personal life off the clock.'

You are not my superior. You do not get to chastise me. I do not report to you.

Clarke thinks her tongue is going to start bleeding soon.

But all she says is, 'It won't happen again.'

She's damn proud her voice doesn't shake.

She holds his gaze steadily, ignoring the rest of the firefighters passing them into the station. So, when his eyes move across her face, Clarke catches the shift, catches the way they flicker when they drop to her mouth. She suddenly becomes aware of how close they're standing.

Her throat goes dry.

There's soot smudged across his caramel skin, his grey AFD t-shirt is patchy with sweat and he's close enough that she can see the cinnamon gold freckles on his cheekbones, that she can smell the ash and smoke on his skin.

The sight of him ripples and -

_She sinks her teeth into his sweat-slickened shoulder and his taste - smoke, salt and shadows - fills her mouth._

'How are you here?' Bellamy murmurs and she doesn't hear - ignores - the confusion, the heavy meaning behind the words as if he means more than he is saying.

All she hears are the words and the words pierce her deep.

Clarke steps back and this time it's rage that sets her blood pumping.

'By graduating at the top of my class and working my ass off in the field.' she says icily, 'And before you can ask, I'm here to do my damned job. So maybe you can afford me some professional courtesy.'

'Professional cour -,' he cuts himself off as his eyes narrow, 'you wanna explain that to me?'

Her anger spikes.

'What did you hear about me?' she demands, stepping up to him, 'Before I got here today, I mean.'

'What the hell does that have -'

'What?'

He looks down at her, jaw ticking. 'My sister told me who you were the day we - we met.'

'No, what she told you was my name.' she corrects quietly. 'You still have no idea who I am. That means you have no idea what I can do, and what I can do is be one hell of a paramedic.' she steps back, coldly calm, 'I apologise for today. It won't happen again.'

Then she turns and pushes into the station.

She doesn't hear the quiet, 'Fuck.' that is whispered to the space where she had stood.

****

Lieutenant Bellamy Blake of Rescue Squad 47, Firehouse 82, was a complete and utter _asshole._

A month at 82 has taught her that.

Clarke stares unblinkingly at the fork in her hand as snippets of the conversation she had overheard earlier, through the door of the showers, replay in her head.

' - she didn't know.'

Raven.

'You sure about that?'

Bellamy's voice is biting and Clarke grits her teeth.

'I'm sure.'

'You've known her all of two seconds and you're sure?'

'Fine, I barely know anything about her.' Raven threw out, 'But you didn't see her face, ok? There's no faking that shock. Clarke didn't know about me.' A pause. 'And maybe I don't know her but I've known Finn my _entire_ life. I knew he was acting weird, acting distant. I just didn't want to admit it. He hasn't been in love with me for a while.'

'And now you know why.'

'You know, Blake,' Raven snaps, 'if you could see past that gigantic chip on your shoulder, you'd realise Clarke isn't what you think she is.'

'If you could see past your bleeding heart, you'd realise people like her take what they want.' Bellamy shot back.

'God, you're a cynic.'

'And you're naïve.'

'Really?' Raven challenged. There's the loud click of something metallic hitting a hard surface, 'Because no one has a problem with her, except you. Like it or not, Clarke is a part of this firehouse now - she's ours. She's damned good at her job -'

'Never said she wasn't.'

'Then maybe you should let her work talk for her.'

'Reyes -'

'Lay off her, Bellamy. I mean it.' Raven said quietly, 'She doesn't deserve the shit you're giving her because she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.'

Silence.

'She doesn't belong here.'

'What are you gonna do?' Raven challenged, 'Run out her out? Make her transfer to another house?'

'Jesus, I'm not that much of an asshole.'

'Then why the fuck are we even having this conversation?'

It was at that point, Clarke had had enough.

She had returned to the common room, let Sterling, the newly minted firefighter on Truck, pile her plate high and sank into a seat at the table. She picks at the pile of scrambled eggs on her plate. They're pale gold and steam rises off them in a herb-and-butter scented wave.

Her stomach recoils at the thought of eating.

She'll admit that she and Bellamy move so much more easily around each other in the field ever since that day at Oppen Bridge several weeks ago. She and Monty had performed a tricky emergency airway puncture using the metal tip of a tube because they didn’t have a cricothyrotomy kit. After that call, there was a definite change in Bellamy’s attitude towards her, moving from cool professionalism to actual trust.

Clarke had even thought that perhaps they might be making some leeway at the house too. He, at least, had stopped completely ignoring her and had even nodded at her yesterday morning when she came in.

Looks like she was wrong.

Clarke picks up a fork and, remembering the dream she had woken up from that morning, stabs it into the steaming waffle next to the eggs.

Foolish, stupid girl.

_She doesn't belong here._

Bellamy's words resound in her ears and she clenches her jaw to stop the tightening of her throat. As if fate delighted in her pain, flashes from that morning's dream cruelly batter her mind - a low rich laugh as he lies under her, his whispered encouragements, his hands tight on her hips, his voice telling her that she was made for him, that he belonged to her.

Stupid, delusional girl.

This is what she gets when she lives in dreams.

'You alright?'

She looks up as Raven drops into the seat next to her.

'Fine.' she shoots the brunette a smile, shoves a piece of waffle into her mouth so she has the excuse of not talking.

'Hey, so.' the other woman drums her fingers on the table, 'I wasn’t joking the other day. I really am looking - '

The siren cuts Raven off mid-sentence.

'Ambulance 6, gunshot victim, corner of Cliff and Raine.'

Relieved, Clarke shoots up, averting her eyes and mutters, 'Sorry, Raven.'

She doesn't wait for a reply and jogs out to the door, turns her head looking for Monty. Instead, she sees Bellamy rounding the corner.

Hurt, pain and anger crashes over her again and she battles it viciously back. She forces her face to go blank and looks right through him. He stops in the middle of the hallway, opens his mouth and Clarke turns away, slamming open the door and walking out.

Perhaps if she knew what was coming, she may have acted differently.

An hour later, Clarke's sitting in the back of the ambo, the ring of a flat-line on the monitor loud in her ears, the smell of blood heavy and cloying in her nose and the feather-light weight of a newborn in her arms.

They tell you never to become complacent on the job, they tell you, clichéd as it may be, to expect the unexpected.

They tell you, in this job, you need to learn to brace yourself.

The baby snuffles quietly.

Monty had turned off the sirens when he had climbed into the back of the ambo to assist her and although he had left the lights on, he hadn't turned the siren back on when he had returned to the driver's seat.

There wasn't a need for a siren anymore.

The victim - deceased now - was seventeen, pretty, heavily pregnant and had been caught in a shootout between rival clans. She had been terrified, panicked, had begged them to save her baby and went into cardiac arrest enroute to the hospital. Monty had pulled over as she flatlined and they had had perform an emergency caesarean in order to save the baby.

Clarke was still numb when they got to St. Vincent's, still numb when the nurses pulled the mother's still body from the ambo and had only came to when another nurse held her arms out to take the baby.

Her head still filled with the ghost of the girl, she had almost resisted and had only allowed Monty to take the baby from her.

In the ambo, the tears started and didn't stop.

Monty, quiet strength and gentle hands Monty, had pulled her into his arms and let her cry into his uniformed shoulder. She had curled an arm around his neck, surrounded by the comforting scent of his cologne, and held on as his murmuring voice turned thick with his own tears.

They walk into the station together and straight into Bellamy.

He was the last person Clarke wanted to see.

His head turns towards them, and he comes to an abrupt stop, eyes widening in shock as they flick from her to Monty. When she drops her gaze and tries to move past him, his arm slashes out in front of her.

'Whoa, hold on.' Bellamy orders, brows drawn, 'What happened?'

She doesn't want his kindness, his pity, doesn't want his comfort, doesn't want whatever else he has to say or offer - she doesn't want it, _doesn't_ want it.

Maybe if she told herself that enough, she'll believe it one day.

Even then, she must be completely out of it to want comfort from someone who might just tell her to 'suck it up' and sneer because he thinks she doesn't belong at 82. Bellamy might be nothing but professional to her out in the field but in here, away from emergencies, he's still a dick.

As she found out, just this morning.

'Bad call.' Clarke says harshly and turns, walks away from him, ignoring the way his mouth tightened.

Monty's low murmur follows her down the hall. When she reaches the turn to the bathrooms, Clarke looks over her shoulder and stops.

Bellamy has a hand around the back of Monty's neck and she watches as pain flashes across his face and he pulls Monty to him. Monty hooks his hands under Bellamy's arms, as he buries his face in Bellamy's shoulder.

The two men stand in the middle of the hallway and although she can still hear the sound of the flat-line, can still feel the weight of that baby in her arms, it cannot detract from the tragic beauty of friends - of family - seeking and finding comfort in each other.

Then Bellamy turns his head and Clarke freezes when his gaze meets hers above Monty's head.

His eyes are shadowed and fierce and Clarke wrenches her gaze away because she cannot deal with the heaviness in his eyes right now.

She escapes into the bathroom.

Clarke doesn't want to admit she wants to know the comfort of Bellamy's arms around her, holding her tight enough to distract her from the pain. The need is a buzz under her skin and she tells herself that it's just left-over adrenaline, just the ache in the wake of a tragedy, tells herself that it's anything else but what it actually is.

Frustrated, she washes her hands viciously, slaps water on her face and straightens, keeping her head bowed over the sink.

The porcelain white is dotted with drops of water, sliding down the edges. Her tears join them, dropping into the sink without a sound. Her vision blurs but when she begins to feel the edge of her sight beginning to darken, she knows what's coming and it's a welcome distraction.

For the first time, she throws herself into the vision.

_'I'm here.'_

_His voice is a balm to the ache in her heart. She clings to him in the darkness of their bedroom and he shifts them until she's lying on top of him. Her despair wets his skin with her tears and his arms rise to encircle her shoulders._

_He lets her cry, does not try to stop her tears with empty words._

_'I'm here.' he says and those are the only words she needs._

_So she takes them and lets them sink into her blood, lets them comfort her. His strength surrounds her like a blanket, warm and safe, and in his arms she finds protection. It is not weak to fall upon the strength of others when yours has failed and he is offering his own so that she may use it to break free from her pain._

_'I'm here.' he whispers and she tightens her hold on him._

_He is solid and unmoving as he strokes her back and kisses the closed lids of her eyes, as salt drops wet onto his lips._

_'I'm here.'_

Clarke grips the edge of the sink, surfacing and holds still, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When her feet feels solidly planted, she raises her face to stare at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes are swollen and red and her skin is blotchy. But the lines of her face aren't so strained anymore, her mouth isn't so tight, and she can't deny that her eyes aren't as hazy.

It's crazy, right?

She knows it is.

She closes her eyes and uses the memory of Bellamy's - or whoever it is - voice, the ghost of his arms around her to pull herself together. Uses the memory of his strength to push herself through this.

It's crazy, to be sure, but for now, Clarke can't bring herself to care.

********

She ends up moving in with Raven.

It's not something she'd usually do - move with someone she had just met a month before but it feels right, feels good.

'Are you sure you want to do this?' Abby asks, 'If it's money you're worried about, you know -'

'I know, Mom.' Clarke interrupts gently, 'But it's not just about the money. Raven's nice and the room at her place is bigger than mine here.' she transfers the phone to her other ear, cradling it against her shoulder as she tapes up the last box, 'It's closer to work, it's got a balcony and the light there is amazing.'

'That's good for your art.' Abby hums. 'And you can't do much better than Raven Reyes.'

Clarke smiles as she nudges the box to the side with her foot. 'She thinks very highly of you too.'

She had often wondered why Raven had been so open to being friends with her. She suspected that part of that was just Raven's big heart. But Raven and Bellamy seemed pretty close - they definitely cared a lot for each other - and it just seemed a little strange to her that Raven would be so friendly in the face of Bellamy's obvious dislike.

Then one day, back at the station after a callout, Raven had walked out of the shower, wrapped in a short towel. It had been a shock to see the thin white streaks against Raven's honey-toned skin, twisting up her left knee and up her leg. Scar tissue. The brunette had seen where Clarke's eyes had gone and smiled wryly.

'Got trapped under a fallen roof, couple of years back. Structure fire.' she had said, 'They told me I'd never walk again, let alone come back to work. My mobility was fucked.' her mouth twisted, 'It was hard.' Then she cocked her head at Clarke in the mirror and grinned, 'But then I met Abby. She told me the surgery was risky but if I was game, she'd be there for me every step of the way. And she was. Your mom's a badass.'

Clarke had stared at her, at a loss of words.

'Abby talked about a lot about you during our sessions.' Raven had said, poking Clarke with a finger, 'When I heard you were being assigned to 82, I couldn’t wait to meet you.'

'I hope you're not disappointed.' Clarke forced the words to sound light.

Raven had winked. 'Not at all.'

'Clarke.' Abby says softly, bring Clarke back to the conversation with a jolt, 'I'm glad you're making friends again.'

She stills, stares at the floor. 'Mom -'

'Sweetheart, I'm your mother. I will worry even when you're gray and old. But,' Abby's voice is tinged with relief, 'it sounds like you're finding your place with 82.'

Clarke blows out a breath. 'They're great people.' she looks around at the knock, 'Well, most of them anyway.' she amends, dropping the tape on the counter on her way to the door, 'Raven's here.'

'Most of them?'

'Some of them are a bit of a challenge.' Clarke mutters.

'Lieutenant Blake, you mean?' Abby asks casually, ' Yes, you've mentioned him. Several times. Loudly.'

She does not appreciate the laughter she's hearing in her mother's voice.

'If I've mentioned him, it's because he's a dick.' she scowls, halting at the door, 'Arrogant, hot -,' _as hell, '_ -headed, infuriating, stubborn and I swear to God,' she throws the locks, 'if he smirks at me again,' yanks open the door, 'I - shit.'

Bellamy stands there, filling her doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, brow arched. 'Anyone I know?'

Clarke snaps to at the sound of Abby's voice calling her name. 'I'm here, Mom. Sorry, I have to go.'

'Are you alright?' Abby asks curiously, 'You sound strange.'

Clarke meets Bellamy's eyes, fighting down a flush when they move to the cell at her ear and the corner of his mouth tips up in sardonic humour. 'I'm fine - I have to go. Love you.' she hangs up and shifts uneasily on her feet. 'What are you doing here, Blake?'

'You're moving into Raven's.' he replies dryly, 'Thought it was obvious, princess.'

'You're here to help?' she asks, incredulous.

'I'm here to get Raven off my ass.' Bellamy corrects as his eyes move to the shoulder bared by the cut of her t-shirt. He pauses. Then he shakes his head once and his eyes flick back to hers, mouth now tight. 'Gonna let me in or do I go back and tell her you don't want my help?'

Clarke hesitates, weighing her options.

Bellamy shifts impatiently, folding his arms across his chest.

She tries not to notice that the sleeves of his navy blue t-shirt strain against his biceps or the way his jeans, faded and stressed with wear and age, mould to his thighs. She also tries to ignore the shorn neckline of her t-shirt slipping even lower on her shoulder, the light sheen of sweat on her neck and the fact that she had not brushed her hair that morning and had just pulled it into a slipshod bun on top of her head.

Then Clarke blows out a breath. 'Might as well.' she mutters and steps back and away from the doorway.

When Bellamy doesn’t move straight away, she glances back at him, sees his eyes fixed again on the curve of her bared shoulder and heat flushes up her neck.

It's ridiculous, of course, it's just a shoulder and she's worn much more revealing things but god, the look in his -

Bellamy's eyes go unfocused and he pales.

Her eyes widen.

His hand shoots out to grip the doorframe and he grunts, staggering slightly, when his weight hits his wrist. Without thinking, Clarke darts forward to steady him.

'Are you okay?' Worry and shock sharpens her voice. She raises a hand to tilt his head towards her.

Bellamy catches her wrist before her fingers could make contact with his face, his head snapping up.

She inhales at his unexpected proximity - she could see the mahogany glints in those dark brown eyes, can see the frustration, the anger and another emotion that clenches her belly. She can see the faint laugh lines at their outer corners and bracketing his mouth. Then his mouth, with it's perfect full lower lip, twists angrily and he releases her hand abruptly.

'Don't touch me.' he bites out.

The angry sneer in his eyes burns her skin in embarrassment and turns her insides to ice. Very gently, she removes the hand she hadn't even noticed she had placed on his hip and takes a step back.

'Sorry.' she apologises coolly, 'You didn't look -.'

'I'm fine.' Bellamy's eyes shift away and he pushes off the door frame. Then grudgingly, 'Late night.'

'If you don't feel up -'

'I'm fine, Griffin.' he repeats harshly. He rolls his shoulders back as if trying to release the tension in them. 'Just - just don't touch me.'

It takes a minute but she realises what he's saying to her and it shrivels up something in her.

Bellamy had never displayed any sort of discomfort with anyone before - accepting hugs from Jasper with amusement poorly concealed as exasperation, he tugs on Monroe's braid once in a while, even slings an arm around Miller's neck in easy affection. He wasn’t the most expressive member of 82 but he never seemed to have a problem with physicality.

Unless it's her.

He really meant what he said - he just doesn’t want _her_ to touch him.

'Noted.' she says quietly, dropping her eyes, her face feeling stiff and strange. She turns her back on him and walks into the apartment, leaving him to follow, 'This way.'

'Clarke,' he calls, voice rough, 'I -'

'I'm almost done packing, so it's this,' she waves an arm at the boxes piled neatly in her living room, 'and whatever I finish in my room.'

She's grateful for the help but god, Raven, Freddy Kruger wasn't available instead?

Behind her, Bellamy curses quietly before his footsteps sound on the hardwood floor. When he draws up next to her, Clarke glances quickly at him, giving him a curt nod.

'Start with any of these,' she turns on her heel towards the back of the flat, 'I'll get the boxes in the bedroom.'

'Just bring them out,' Bellamy grinds out, 'and I'll take them down. You can help when you're done with packing, yeah?'

'Fine with me.'

Despite their agreement, Clarke waits until she hears him leave the flat before she comes out with the first box.

From then on, they work in silence, speaking only to agree on splitting the boxes between their cars. The last thing he says is a curt 'I'll drop your stuff with Raven.' before disappearing out the door.

Clarke turns in her keys to the superintendent, pulls away from the curb and doesn't look back.

Despite her alteration with Bellamy that morning, she still can't stop a smile as her new apartment building comes into sight. She grabs a box from the back of the car - Raven is going to have help her get the rest -, jogs up the stairs and unlocks the door to her new home.

She steps in and comes to an abrupt stop as she takes in the scene.

'Hey!' Raven calls cheerily from the open plan kitchen.

A chorus of 'Hi, Clarke!' s come from the crowd in the living room - Monty, Jasper, Murphy and Miller - and Harper waves at her from the balcony before turning her head to talk to someone else.

Bellamy's missing from the crowd packed into the apartment. Clarke tells herself that she notices his absence because she knows she saw his truck in the parking lot downstairs.

Monroe appears from the bathroom, a shoebox in her hands that Clarke recognises as having packed her spare toiletries in. 'We pretty much unpacked everything for kitchen, living room and bathroom -'

'But we left the boxes labelled 'Bedroom' alone because I ain't going through that shit again.' Miller calls from the couch, lifting a beer bottle at her.

Snickers and snorts come from everyone and Monty shakes his head, burying his face in an open palm.

'Oh no,' Clarke's eyes shift from Harper to Miller, 'what happened?'

'The last time?' Miller says, brandishing his bottle, 'The last time, we helped Harper move and the next thing I know, I'm unpacking her collection of toys. I do not need to know that much about my co-workers, okay? There is a line, dude, _a line_.'

The room descends into laughter and a giggling Harper throws a corn chip at the Lieutenant.

'Most guys would draw the line at tampons.' Clarke grins.

'Tampons?' Miller scoffs, 'Please. Every guy in here has done a tampon run at least once since joining - we've been enlightened and gotten over any tampon and period phobia we may have had prior to Firehouse 82 _._ '

'We have the highest female to male ratio in the city.' Jasper puts in, 'It'll be stupid to get squicky over the natural functions of a woman's body.'

'Remember the first time -'

'Yes, yes, thank you, Harper, I am painfully aware that I was squicky once too.' Jasper glared, 'In my defense, I was still wet behind the ears and reeked of social conditioning, okay? Like Miller said, we've been enlightened.'

Harper smirks.

'Hey.'

Clarke turns to find Raven crooking a finger at her from the island.

'You okay with everyone here?' the brunette murmurs when Clarke walks up, 'They just wanted to help out a bit and hang, but I've told them that if you're tired and need space -'

'What, no!' Clarke protests, waving a hand, 'No, Raven, this is…' she turns her head to watch Monty throw an M&M into Jasper's open mouth, grins and turns back to Raven, 'I like this.'

'Are you sure?' Raven persists, 'They've agreed to clear out, just say the word.'

'Raven.' Clarke grabs her hands, 'I'm fine.' she remembers what her mother had said and looks away, 'I don't make friends easily.'

The brunette's face softens. 'Okay. But let me know - we can get a bit smothering sometimes.'

Clarke grins. 'I like your type of smothering.'

She doesn't ask about Bellamy.

At one point, she wanders out to the balcony, lifting her face to the sun.

The conversations behind her fall to a muted buzz as she breathes in deep and closes her eyes. Harper's giggle reaches her and Clarke smiles. She opens her eyes, glances down and the ground rushes up towards her, vertigo hitting her in a dizzying rush.

As the world turns blurry, Clarke grips the banister tightly in panic -

_'Thank you.' she whispers._

_'I made you a promise.' he says, his chest warm against her back, his heat a comfort. 'I intend to keep it.'_

_She turns her head, heart soaring, heart aching with bittersweet joy, and presses her mouth against his. His head goes back in surprise but he responds to her kiss, his hand coming up to cup her jaw._

_She doesn't know how to show him her gratitude using her words without showing him her heart. So she'll show him her gratitude using her lips and as she shifts to push him to his back, her body._

_Sex, after all, is just another language._

_His interpretation, however, is all up to him._

Shuddering, Clarke comes to.

Slowly, the conversation behind her, the music and the voices, rise in volume as she grips the banister and uses the pain in her fingers to pull herself back into reality.

What is wrong with her?

There are tears gathering behind her eyes as her heart aches - a strange bittersweet ache that doesn't belong to her but does at the same time. Clarke shakes her head, eyes still tightly closed, trying to rid herself of the images in her head, the sound of _his_ voice, the taste of his lips, the feel of his body.

'Griffin?'

When she hears his voice, she thinks she's still caught in the dregs of the vision. Then she realises that he's using her _name._

'Clarke!'

She jerks up, spins and looks up in the direction his voice had come from. The sun momentarily blinds her before a dark figure moves into it, blocking it and at first she thinks she's seeing things.

But no, that really is Bellamy, standing on a balcony, above her. His hands are braced against the railing, body held away. He looks like he's about to vault over the railing and down to her. Raven's balcony jutted out far enough that he could have made the jump without hurting himself.

Bellamy straightens and leans over the railing, his face tight. 'You okay?'

Clarke means to tell him that she's fine but what comes out is, 'What are you doing there?' But then she remembers Harper earlier, standing exactly where she is now, waving at her before turning to talk to someone - Harper had been talking to _Bellamy._

But before she could say anything further, confusion shifts across Bellamy's features.

'I live here.' he says, brows drawing down.

Clarke closes her eyes and smiles tightly.

Of course he does.

'Raven didn't tell you.'

She opens her eyes to see him watching her. He was still wearing the jeans from earlier but had changed into a tank top and she could see the veins running up the hard, rounded outlines of his upper arms. His dark hair was tipped a fiery red by the light behind him and he looked like an ancient god, haloed by the sun, strong boned face, dark eyes and wild hair.

Her mouth goes dry.

There's a thought, a whisper, on the edge of her consciousness but she can't quite grasp it.

Forcibly, Clarke focuses on his question. 'No, she didn't.'

Bellamy's mouth twists and he huffs out a short laugh. 'Yeah, sounds like her.'

Her belly burns unpleasantly. 'Is this going a problem?' she challenges.

He rises a brow. 'Not for me.'

'You sure?' she throws back, 'Because the last thing I want to be is something that doesn't belong.'

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them and Bellamy's head jerks back.

Shit.

But it's too late to take the words back now and she holds his gaze, watching as his jaw clenches and his mouth tightens. He is the first one to break, looking away and the tense line of his shoulders move on an inhaled breath.

When he looks up, Clarke feels sort of a vindictive pleasure at seeing the flash of shame those dark eyes.

'It's no problem for me, Clarke.' he says quietly. 'I give you my word.'

The phrase jolts her out of her anger and hurt and she feels the earth shift under her feet. She shakes her head to clear it, struggles to hold on to her anger.

'I'll stay out your way.' she says finally, 'You won't even know I'm here and you stay out of mine and we'll be fine. Deal?'

He doesn't reply at once, just continues to watch her and Clarke swears pain flashes across his face before he straightens off the railing and the sun blinds her again.

'Deal.' he says roughly, a dark faceless shadow.

Then he's gone.

****

Clarke drops to her knees and leans over to check the victim’s eyes. ‘He’s responsive. Just knocked out.’ Noticing the wallet on the coffee table, she grabs it, flips it open and finds his driver’s licence. She leans back over him, ‘Gary? Gary, you need to wake up.’ She taps him lightly on the cheek.

‘That must have been some bump.’ Monty remarks, ‘Stretcher?’

They had been responding to a distress call that came from inside the building - a guy the cops were still chasing down somewhere blocks away had shot a man in one of the flats. The rest of the residents panicked and caused a small stampede at the doors. The sole lift in the building had jammed. The gunshot wound victim was enroute to hospital but the bullet had missed anything vital and some of the other residents had to be treated for shock and some bruising by other paramedics on the scene but otherwise, were okay.

She and Monty, given the go ahead by the police officers stationed in front of the building, were sweeping the rest of the apartments just in case.

Clarke hums in agreement and Monty moves away.

It's been a just over a fortnight since she moved in with Raven and Clarke thinks her decision to stay with the firefighter might have been one of her best yet.

Bellamy kept his word and aside from the music that drifted in through the open balcony doors on quiet nights, Clarke wouldn't have even known they were living in the same building. She doesn't know if that was a relief or not. Her dreams continued to plague her but Clarke thinks that she ignores them enough, maybe - just maybe - they'll go away.

She was a master at bottling things up and ignoring them, after all. She has been ever since she lost her father and then Wells.

At the station, she and Bellamy had seemingly reached a stalemate. It might have pleased her but for the fact that she notices his eyes on her a lot more now and it's slightly disquieting. Clarke doesn’t want to wonder at the reason why.

She hears Monty’s fading footfalls replaced by heavier footsteps. Turning her head, she sees Bellamy filling the doorway, helmet and jacket in a black-gloved hand, a jack in the other.

They must have already dealt with the lift.

‘You good in here, Griffin?’ Bellamy asks, eyes on Gary, coming in deeper to the room.

‘Should be.’ Clarke murmurs as he drops into a crouch next to her. ‘Tried reviving him but he’s knocked out pretty good. Monty’s gone to get the stretcher.’ She purses her lips, studying Gary again. ‘Hand me that C-Collar?’ The collar is placed into her open palm and she leans forward over Gary, unsnapping it. ‘Actually it’s a good thing you’re here,’ she says absently, ‘You can help us carry him out.’

‘Just tell me where you need me.’

Before she can reply, a form moves in the corner of her eye. Clarke freezes when she sees the man who had appeared in the doorway of a bedroom.

Then her eyes drop to his hand and shock churns her belly.

The cops never caught the shooter because he had never left the building.

‘Fuck.’

Ignoring Bellamy's curse, the gunman’s eyes shift to Clarke, ‘Back off, lift your hands where I can see them.’

Clarke swallows, glancing down at her fingers resting on the collar she had managed to slip under Gary’s neck. ‘Just let me get this on him?’

It was the wrong thing to say.

The shooter’s face twists and the gun swung upwards.

Fingers bite into her shoulder and she’s yanked backwards, dropping the collar and falling back on her ass. Her sight of the shooter is partially blocked Bellamy’s back, his arm slashing out and above her.

‘She’s off, okay?’ Bellamy snaps, rough and hard. ‘She’s off.’ His other hand comes up, placating, ‘Come on, man, take it easy.’

Breath knocked out of her, Clarke stares at his turned back, the protective arm he had raised over her.

Bellamy had basically thrown himself between her and a loaded gun.

Terror and indecision snaps her out of shock and she lies there, motionless and mouth dry, wanting to pull him away but terrified that she might set off the gunman again.

‘Get up!’ the shooter snaps, stepping to the side to wave the gun at Clarke, ‘Now!’

Clarke sits up slowly, raising her hands. She pushes against Bellamy’s arm but it remains solidly in front of her.

‘Hey, talk to me.’ Bellamy says quietly to the shooter, ‘You don’t have to do this. You can just walk away –‘

‘You’ve seen my face!’ the armed man yells, eyes wild and frantic landing on Clarke, ‘You should have left with the other one! Come out!’

The gun shakes uncontrollably and Bellamy surges up on his knees, arms spreading out.

Clarke clutches Bellamy’s shoulder and yanks back because she knows what he’s doing, she knows he’s trying to draw the shooter’s attention, making himself a bigger, easier target and her heart is going to give out at the thought.

Bellamy shakes her off roughly and reaches back to wrap an arm around her waist, shoving her behind him even more firmly and holding her there, pressed to his back.

‘I’m sorry.’ she calls, pushing at Bellamy’s arm and managing to slip out of his hold. She ignores his hissed ‘Clarke’ and moves into the gunman’s view, ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t do this – you don’t have to do this.’

The man’s gaze is wreaked and his face is shiny with sweat. Clarke knows its too late for her when she sees his decision flash across his features and the gun swings in her direction.

In the heartbeat that follows, several things happen all at once – Murphy charges in and, swinging the heavy halligan bar like a golf-club, slams it into the gunner’s arm. The gunshot explodes in the small room just as Bellamy twists at the waist and tackles her.

Clarke has a second to hear her soul scream before Bellamy’s weight hits her, her head smacking into the floorboards a split second before her back and her breath whooshes out of her body in a gasped wheeze.

The tang of blood blooms in her mouth, sharp and salty, where her teeth had snapped down into the side of her tongue.

Then deafening silence.

Dazed, Clarke barely feels the weight on her chest shifting off.

‘Clarke?’ a voice, hoarse and angry cuts through the buzz in her ears, ‘Clarke!’

Bellamy.

Her eyes fly open and she shoots up into a sitting position, batting away his hands and twisting to see him crouching next to her, his features tight, eyes hard.

‘Turn around,’ she snaps, then too impatient, she leans around him, running her hands across the expanse of his back. Her fingers encounter nothing but warm solid flesh under his black standard issue polo but her heart is still racing, ‘You shouldn’t have done that!’

‘You mean I should have let him shoot you?’ Bellamy’s tone is dry.

‘I – you – you know what I mean!’ she snarls.

Then her voice dies when Bellamy swivels on the balls of his feet, capturing her hand. His gloved touch is hard and solid against her fingers.

Too late, she remembers that he didn't want her touching him and she yanks her hand out of his.

But all he says is a quiet, ‘I’m fine, Clarke.'

He’s right there– he’s only inches away from her and Clarke realises that she wants to lean up and press her lips to his, drowning herself in his taste to wash away the memory and horror of him facing down a gun.

Reality crashes into her and Clarke jerks back and away to look around Bellamy. Straddling the knocked out shooter, Murphy grins at her, the gun lying harmless several feet away.

There’s powdered plaster on the rug below where the bullet had dug into the ceiling.

‘That was fun.’ Murphy smirk.

He replies to her mouthed ‘thank you’ with a wink just as police officers and firefighters burst into the room.

Avoiding Bellamy’s eyes, Clarke shifts forward towards Gary who had slept through the entire drama. Bellamy rises to answer the questions and there’s no more softness in his voice as he demands to know who had swept the floor and cleared it.

Clarke finishes strapping Gary’s C-collar and when Monty drops down next to her, sends him a comforting smile.

‘Are you okay?’ he whispers, voice pitched under Bellamy’s growls.

‘Yeah,’ she assures as they slide the stretcher under Gary. Then, lips compressed, she whispers back, ‘Bellamy put himself between me and a bullet.’ Before Monty could respond, she stands, ‘Come on, lets get Gary out of here.’

With some help from Monroe and Jasper, they lift the unconscious man and move through the maze of uniforms in the room.

At the doorway, they need to pass Bellamy and the police officer in charge of the scene. She steals a final glance at him. He’s standing, hands on hips, fingers resting where the faded red suspenders began on his waist.

On his left arm, a vein runs from under his short sleeve of his polo shirt, down his arm to disappear into his glove where it ends at his wrist.

Clarke remembers how that arm had sliced out in front of her, unshakeable, protective.

Her own words echo in her ears - Bellamy put himself between me and a bullet - and she swallows.

Another voice, harsher with the grit of smoke, whispers, _'You will have everything I am at your back.'_

Clarke jerks away from the words, fists her trembling fingers around the handles of the stretcher and pushes the voice out her mind.

********

Three days later, Clarke finds herself at St. Vincent, surrounded by the scent of antiseptic and in the quiet of the Maternity Ward.

She knows she shouldn't be doing this - in fact she's read all the policy manuals on the subject and knows just why she shouldn’t be doing this.

Emotional attachments to victims are not encouraged in her line of work. You get to a scene, you work it, you do your best to save lives and minimise harm done and if you lose a life on your watch, it's not your fault. If you succeed, you get the victim to hospital and your watch ends when the hospital staff takes that gurney from your hands.

In her line of work, you leave your attachment just inside those hospital doors.

But Clarke has never been good at that.

She knows the dangers, she knows that caring too much will burn her out in the long run, she _knows._

But sometimes she can't help herself.

'How is she?' Clarke asks the smiling nurse beside her, eyes on the sleeping baby.

'At birth, she was a little anaemic, a little under-weight,' the nurse says, 'but she's pulling through now. She's a fighter that one.' the nurse shifts on his feet, 'I heard you and your partner were the ones who conducted the post-mortem Caesarean. You saved her life.'

Clarke wonders what type of life they saved her for.

'No one has come forward yet?' she asks, 'Grandparents, aunts, uncles - no one?'

The nurse - Palmer according to his name tag - shakes his head, mouth tight. 'If no one comes forward, it can take months before they find anyone.' He places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes comfortingly and leaves.

She closes her eyes, remembers the young mother's terror, her hands on her swollen belly, begging her and Monty to save her baby. Clarke rubs a tired hand across her face, her promise weighing heavy on her shoulders. She goes back to that day, backtracks, thinks of everything she could have done different to change the outcome.

It's a foolish, dangerous thing to do and it only served to make things worse.

She leans forward, presses her forehead and a hand against the glass, 'I'm sorry.' she whispers, 'I'm so sorry.'

Was she distracted that day?

Yes, she was when she left the Station with Monty - distracted by her own crap but didn't she shake it off like she did for every other call?

She did, right?

But what if she hadn't as much as she had thought?

What if she was off her game during that call, what if she wasn't at her best?

If she hadn't been so distracted by her own hurt, would she have been able to see something that could have helped?

Is that what had happened?

Did she cost someone her life? Robbed a child of her mother?

Tears, guilt and helplessness, gather under her closed lids. 'I'm so fucking sorry.'

'Griffin.'

She jerks back from the glass in shock to see Bellamy standing in the middle of the quiet hospital hallway, an empty crate dangling from his hand.

'What are you doing here?' she tries to laugh it off, brushing the tears off her face quickly.

He doesn't reply at once, his brows drawing down as his eyes scan her face. Then he sucks in a breath, chest expanding under his olive-drab t-shirt and shoves his free hand into the pocket of his bomber jacket. He lifts the crate. 'Books from the charity drive last week. Came to drop them off.'

Clarke silently swears - if she had remembered that he was going to be here, she would have waited for her day off to do this. 'Right.' she throws him a stiff smile, 'Okay, so I have -'

'You know better than this.' he says, eyes flicking to the room beyond the glass.

She stiffens.

'Maybe.'

'Clarke,' he steps forward, 'you know you can't afford to get att -'

'I'm not.' she snaps. Then she exhales in frustration, 'I know, Bellamy.'

He stands there, studying her with those sharp, dark eyes and Clarke resists the urge to shift under his gaze. Then he turns his head to look into the room and his face softens.

'This wasn't on you.' he says quietly. His eyes come back to her, 'It's tragic and heartbreaking but it isn't on you. You and Monty did your best.'

If only he knew.

She looks away, swallows the bitter laugh scratching the inner lining of her throat.

'Clarke.' he calls and when she turns back to him, he starts to shake his head slowly, 'We can't save everyone. We can try. But we won't be able to.'

She lets the words sink in and tries to drag up a smile.

He opens his mouth to say something further, hesitates, then, 'See you tomorrow.'

Bellamy had already taken several steps when Clarke calls him back, his name echoing in the quiet corridor. He turns automatically, the lines of his face tight. Without thinking, Clarke moves forward to place a hand on his arm.

'Thank you for the other day.' she says as his head drops to look at her hand on him, 'I didn't tell you before but thank you for…' saving my life 'having my back with that shooter.'

She doesn't realise that his arm had gone rigid under her touch until Bellamy pulls it away. He does it slowly, but the implication and the reminder is there and Clarke's cheeks flame. Some foolish part of her had thought that perhaps they may have gotten past this stage but she clearly misunderstood.

Her hand drops to her side, her fingers tingling strangely, her tattooed wrist flaring suddenly.

'You're a good paramedic.' Bellamy says roughly, eyes suddenly flat.

He saved her because she was a good paramedic?

Because she was an asset to his house, she realises dimly, a rushing in her ears. Hurt swiftly followed and then was drowned in vicious self-deprecation.

What did you think, a voice mocked her, he risked himself for you because he _cared?_

'Right.' she says numbly to his chest and steps back.

She doesn't see the way frustration narrows his eyes or that Bellamy had opened his mouth again only to snap it shut. She misses the way he closes his eyes briefly before he turns away.

Clarke only sees his back as he walks down that hallway.

_You'll have everything I am at your back._

His voice echoes in her ears and this time, she doesn’t stop the bitter laugh from bubbling up from her.

Yeah right.

********

The smell of spilled diesel is heavy and cloying in the air.

Clarke glances at the firefighters working the accident scene as she and Monty take care of the driver and hope they can get out of there soon. Spilled diesel always brings back bad memories for her and her skin feels too tight.

She leans over the victim.

'Mark?' she calls out, 'We're going to take you to Sacred Heart but I'm going to need you to stay awake for me until we get there, ok? Do you understand?'

He blinks up at her. 'I understand.' he says, words muffled by the oxygen mask.

There's no sign of slurring in his speech - that was encouraging.

'Clarke.'

At Monty's mutter, she looks up, hands briefly still as she adjusts the C-collar around the man's neck. 'What?'

Monty slides his eyes to the left and looking into the crowd of bystanders, she clocks them. There are three of them, late teens, early twenties. And tweaked to the gills if their body language is anything to go by - restless bouncing on the balls of their feet, jittery hands. If she went up to any of them and shone a light in the eyes currently locked on the inside of the ambo, Clarke would bet they would be dilated.

Shit.

'They've been watching us ever since we got here.' Monty murmurs, 'We should let Bellamy know.'

She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder to see Bellamy, belly to the ground, peering under the wrecked Civic Honda. His team worked around him in full damage control mode. Protocol states that if she needs back-up, she should call for it. But she hesitates because she doesn't even know if the teens are a viable threat - her gut tells her that they are but…how much can she trust her gut?

Lately, her gut has been telling her too many things that have turned out to be wrong. Lately, her gut has been messing up her perception of reality because it keeps telling her that her dreams are real, that those hallucinations and visions are memories.

Her gut has told her that she had known Bellamy before she had ever met him, that he had loved her once and will so again, that his love for her spanned a millennia, that her soul was linked with his irrevocably, that she could love no other the way she would love him, that their love for each other was all consuming and true.

Instead, she found a man who had judged and underestimated her until she proved him wrong, who just plain didn't like her, who had thought - probably still thinks - that she didn't belong, who might risk his life for hers but only because he recognised a valuable team asset.

What sort of cosmic love was that?

Lately, her gut has been confusing her too much - she doubts it can point her in the way of coffee in a café now.

So Clarke hesitates. Besides, if the ambo leaves now, they may not even be a problem.

'No. Help me get him in,' she finally tells Monty, fingers moving quickly, ' then I've got the rest and you can get us the hell out of here.'

They wheel the gurney to the ambo and as Monty engages the collapsible legs, Clarke jumps up to pull Mark fully into the cabin. The doors close with a comforting thud as she's strapping him in more securely and her breath leaves her in a relieved rush.

Except the doors fly open again, momentarily blinding her and when she regains her sight, there's someone climbing into the cabin.

_Shit._

It's one of the teens and out of the corner of her eye, she sees his friends crossing the street rapidly. Her heart jumps into her throat.

'Hey, get out!' she storms over.

'Lady, I just want a little morphine.' he whines, eyes too bright, wide, innocent smile. 'You wouldn't even miss it.'

'Out!' she repeats harshly and pushes him back a step.

Face twisted, the teen pushes her back hard enough that her foot catches on the corner of the bed and she goes down on her ass, red spikes of pain blazing up her spine.

'Clarke!' Monty's voice echoes in the small small.

Pissed now, she kicks out, catching the teen on the leg and sending him staggering away from the plastic drawer he had yanked out. She tilts her head back to see Monty's face in the cut-out, wide-eyed, already leaning towards the door.

'I'm good!' she yells to stop Monty from coming to her, 'Get us out of here!'

She lurches to her feet as the engine rumbles to life under her and jumps at the teen who had fallen back further as the ambo jerked. She must have underestimated because, tackling him around the waist, she sends them both tumbling out of the vehicle. He cushions her fall but fire blazes from her forearms and up her arms as the road scrapes off skin and her knee becomes a knot of pain as it hits the ground with a jarring thud. Cursing her stupidity, Clarke staggers upright, leaving the groaning teen on the road, and backs limping into the ambo.

A couple of metres away, Raven and Monroe had the other two teens on the ground, Bellamy coming up fast behind them, his eyes locked on her.

Heat, having nothing to do with pain, prickles her skin as she hefts herself up into the vehicle and into a crouch, still holding his gaze. The teen she had left on the ground staggers to his feet and surges at her. Her eyes leave Bellamy and her arms snap out, fingers gripping the hand-holds on either side of the open ambo doors, barring the teen's entrance with her body. He screams something unintelligible at her and his fist rises.

Oh, hell no.

Suddenly incensed, Clarke falls back, plants her foot in his chest and shoves.

He goes flying back - straight into Bellamy.

'Monty, now!' she yells.

The only thing that keeps her from sliding across the floor as Monty steps on the gas is her tight grip on the hand holds. She winces when her shoulder protests as she pulls herself up back in order to close the doors.

Her last sight of the accident scene is Bellamy, struggling teen in his grasp, police officers swarming around him, eyes on her crouching figure. She crouches there, framed by the open cabin, as they speed away and even with the rapidly increasing distance between them, she can tell he's pissed.

Clarke pushes him out of her mind, swings the doors closed and rushes back to Mark. His eyes are open - alert, wide and a little awed.

His hand pulls down his oxygen mask. 'Is it always this exciting around you?'

She collapses onto the bed opposite him, relief and adrenaline making her weak-kneed, and sucked in air. She tries to hold it in but Mark's soft chuckle sets her off and Clarke begins to laugh, gasping, breathless snorts that are joined by Monty's relieved giggles.

'Put your mask back on.' she wheezes at Mark, waving a hand.

He slips her a soft grin. 'Yes ma'am.'

Despite the razor sharp pain in her forearms, the ache in her knee and her tailbone as she moves around Mark, checking him properly, it can't touch the warmth in her belly.

At the hospital, they wave goodbye to Mark as the nurse wheels him away and spend the next hour filing their report. Monty hesitated about mentioning the incident with the teens but Clarke arched a brow at him. They both know its potential for going south, reporting it, but Clarke's willing to take it on if it comes to that.

If it ever comes to that.

As they're walking out, Monty bumps her companionably with his shoulder and she shoves him back gently, grinning at him.

'Bellamy's gonna hit the roof.' he says conversationally.

Clarke pauses, glancing at him. 'Why would you say that?'

'Because he was the Lieutenant in charge when all that went down and he didn't stop it before it happened.'

She nearly stops walking. 'It wasn't his fault.'

'Haven't you noticed?' Monty sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, 'Bellamy takes on more blame than he actually owns.'

When they get back, everyone's crowded in the common room. It's casual enough but a lot of eyes turn her way and she slows.

Not everyone, Clarke thinks, looking around.

Bellamy's nowhere to be seen.

'Clarke?'

She glances over her shoulder to see Fox standing in the hallway. The new Administration Assistant is young, a little quiet, but there's a sharpness to her eyes that Clarke knows doesn’t miss much. That sharpness now gives Clarke some warning for what's to come next.

'Chief Kane wants to see you in his office.' Fox says. She shifts on her feet. 'You should know, he has Cage Wallace with him.'

Clarke barely manages to suppress a groan. 'That was faster than I expected.' she mutters to Monty, then to Fox, 'Thanks, I'll be right there.'

Harper mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'This is bullshit.' from her seat at the table. It should have earned her, at the least, a warning look from her Lieutenant but Miller just purses his lips and concentrates on the apple he was munching on.

Clarke sighs and follows Fox out of the Common Room.

She can see hear Cage Wallace's voice before she even reaches Kane's office.

The man was a dick of creepy proportions. He was also, unfortunately, an officer with Arkadia's Paramedic Association, and his father and Abby knew each other. All things considered, Clarke was ready to deal with him.

What she didn't expect, however, was to hear Bellamy's distinct growl over Cage's oily tone.

' - if he wants to take it out of anyone's hide,' Bellamy's voice snarls, 'tell him to take it out of mine. I was the Officer in Charge.'

Monty was right, she realises with a start, he really does take on more blame than he owns.

She pushes the door open and the occupants of the room turn to her.

Bellamy, AFD grey t-shirt, lower half still in protective gear and boots, slashes her an furious look from under unruly hair. He's standing in front of Kane's desk, frustration and animosity radiating off him as he faces off with Cage.

'Griffin, please come in.' Kane gestures her in.

She closes the door behind her and approaches the trio in the room, Bellamy moving away to make space for her.

'Mr. Wallace here,' Kane says quietly, 'says that a young man reported that you got into an alteration with him today.' he pauses, 'He's making a formal complaint against you.'

'A _formal_ complaint?' Clarke repeats incredulously.

'The man you hurt is Rodrick Degraw, Clarke.' interjects Cage meaningfully.

The name sparks a memory but she can't figure it out yet.

'He says you,' Cage purses his lips, 'attacked him. He claims to have gotten into the ambulance to offer his assistance - he doesn’t deny being at the scene of the accident.'

She rears back in shock and fury before finding her voice again. 'Are you serious - he attacked _me_!'

'Of course he doesn't deny being at the scene.' Bellamy mutters scathingly at the same time, 'Hard to, seeing as he was arrested there.'

'Mr. Blake,' Cage says, his sneer setting Clarke's teeth on edge, 'you managed to inject yourself uninvited into this discussion. I am an APA officer, watch your tone.'

'Lieutenant.' Clarke snaps.

'Pardon, my dear?' Cage asks.

She hates the patronising way Cage looks at the firefighter standing beside her. She wants to slap that smirk off his face. 'Lieutenant Blake is a decorated officer with the Arkadian Fire Department. Use his proper title - he _earned_ those stripes.'

Cage's eyes go squinty and the silence in the room becomes pointed.

There's a lot of controversy surrounding Cage Wallace's appointment, rumours rampant that he had pulled the considerable heft of his father's name to land a job he was untrained for. Considering the amount of times he had screwed up and the dismal effort the APA used to clean up his messes, it became clear pretty soon after his appointment that he was woefully unprepared for the responsibilities of his post.

However, Clarke had not meant her words the way Cage was obviously taking them but she can't take them back now. And honestly, she meant what she said - Bellamy had earned his title and she's seen proof of it every day.

'Don't worry about it, Clarke.' Bellamy says into the quiet, 'He can call me whatever the hell he wants. I don't need to wave around a title to prove the size of my c -'

'Cage.' Kane booms as Cage's face turns an alarming shade of red and Clarke chokes down a laugh, 'Surely there's some other way we handle this. A suspension is really blowing this out of proportion.'

What?

'A suspension?' Clarke whispers disbelievingly, laughter dying abruptly, 'Chief, he was going for the morphine. I told him to stop and he shoved me. I had a victim in the back of ambo with me - I reacted accordingly.'

Kane turns to Cage, raising his eyebrows.

'It's her word against Roddy Degraw's.' Cage huffs out, tearing his eyes away from Bellamy.

Clarke blows out a frustrated breath. Roddy Degraw. Now it makes sense.

'Senator Degraw is not happy that his son is being held in custody.' Cage continues, 'He wants this resolved and Clarke suspended.'

'It's a good thing that the Paramedic Association isn't going to roll over and give up one of their own, just like that though, right?' Bellamy drawls.

Cage glares at him. 'It's more complicated than you comprehend.'

'Is it?' Bellamy challenges, 'The kid's probably scared his dad's going to find out he's been shooting up and pissed that someone half his size put him on his ass. Look into it, take statements. Hell, I'll give you mine before you leave.'

'All you saw,' Cage snaps, 'is Clarke and Roddy falling out of the vehicle before she kicked him in the chest.'

'And him trying to get back on while threatening to knock Clarke out and calling her a 'stupid bitch'.' Bellamy retorts.

So that's what he had been screaming in her face.

Cage shifts on his feet. 'Ah.'

'Ah?' she bites out, 'Ah what?'

'Senator Degraw,' he says, spreading his hands out and smiling slickly at Bellamy, 'has personally asked me if I could ensure that that part of your incident report is struck out.'

Silence.

'What?' Clarke yells, fury hitting her in a lava hot wave.

'Clarke, my girl,' Cage turns to her, 'Senator Degraw is a very powerful ally to have and he'll owe you a marker. It's only a suspension.'

'Yeah, and my professional reputation,' she snaps, 'you dick!'

Cage turns shocked and scandalised and oh, how she wishes it was on account of his preposterous proposition instead of what she had called him. She doesn’t know she's moving towards Cage until an iron grip wraps around her arm. She looks up to see Bellamy staring at Cage like the APA officer had crawled out of a sewer.

'The good Senator will also ensure that you will be generously compensated, of course. Promotions are easy to come by and Firehouse 82 will be well regarded.' Cage continues and Clarke realises he's talking to Bellamy this time.

Clarke's stomach drops and her eyes fly to Bellamy.

If he chooses to take the deal, it's her word against a Senator's son and if they can get to a APA officer this far up the ranks, they can get to those in medicine and law enforcement willing to take a bribe.

Then Bellamy smirks and it's beautiful in its insolence. 'Fuck off, Wallace.' he says succinctly.

Clarke closes her eyes in relief.

Cage sneers. 'You're making a mistake -'

'Get out.'

They all turn to see Kane staring at Cage with distaste.

'Chief Kane, I suggest -'

'And I suggest,' Kane snaps, 'that you reconsider the path you are on. Do not come into my Firehouse, threaten my paramedics, try to bribe my lieutenants and expect me to sit idly by.'

Cage draws in a breath, looking at Bellamy and then Kane. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'

'You come after Clarke,' Kane warns, 'you'll be coming after Firehouse 82. And trust me, we do not go down easy. The Senator will find it easier to handle the media storm that he faces by putting his son into rehab than the storm we are capable of becoming.'

Cage takes in Kane's words then nods stiffly. He turns towards the door, pauses, and looks at Clarke.

'This isn’t like you, Clarke.' he tells her.

'What, standing up for myself and refusing to take a bribe?' she icily asks.

'Making waves.' Cage sniffs, 'You would have never resorted to violence and you would have seen reason. You would thought of your mother and her reputation.'

The sting is, he was right.

Once upon a time, she would have handed Roddy what he wanted or sat quietly while he took it. Once upon a time, she would have yelled and fussed but would have taken the deal in fear of her job being taken from her. Once upon a time. She's not that girl anymore.

But all she says is, 'You've obviously don't know my mother as well as you think you do.'

'Oh, but I do know and this isn't you.' Cage's mouth is a thin, pressed line. 'It must be the company you're keeping.' he says, glancing meaningfully at Bellamy.

Bellamy bares his teeth in a sharp grin, unbothered by the insinuation.

When Cage finally leaves, the air in the office seem fresher for his absence.

'Thank you, Chief.' Clarke says into the silence.

Kane waves a hand. 'We look after our own here, Griffin.' he gives her a comforting smile, 'Don't worry, we'll handle this.'

She hopes so.

Bellamy is already halfway down the hallway by the time she finds him.

'Hey!' she calls out, jogging to catch up with him.

He looks over his shoulder, strides slowing but not stopping entirely. 'I have to be somewhere, Griffin.'

His face is back to it's other default around her: stony. Her stomach drops at the sight but she shakes it off.

'Relax.' she says when she finally closes the distance between them, 'I just wanted to say thank you for backing me up in there.'

A muscle ticks in his jaw. 'Just doing my job.' he mutters, still not looking at her.

Clarke blows out a breath - her legs are shorter than his and at the pace he's going, she still needs to take two steps for every step he takes.

'Could you just slow down?' she snaps, 'I'm trying to talk to you.'

Bellamy stops so suddenly, she nearly runs into him. Then she's backing up quickly when he spins around to face her.

'What the hell were you thinking?' he hisses, long-lidded eyes hard and narrowed.

'Wha-'

'Did you know that kid was there?' Bellamy demands, 'Did you know he was angling for the ambo?'

Shit.

'I knew it was a possibility.' she admits quietly.

'Then the why the hell didn't you call for back-up?' he snaps, the angular lines of his face tight with anger, 'What if he had a knife? A gun? You could have been seriously hurt, Clarke!'

'I thought Monty and I could handle it.' she explains, holding her ground, 'And we did.'

Bellamy's laugh is bitter and stinging. 'You call Cage Wallace paying us a visit, threatening this house, having 'handled it'?'

Her mouth drops open in disbelief.

'That's not fair.' Clarke protests hotly, 'I didn't kn -'

'Fuck fair.' Bellamy bites out. 'You could have been _hurt_ \- do you not understand that? This could have been avoided if you had alerted us the second you clocked that dipshit and his friends. You didn’t. Instead, you decided to play hero and -'

'I wasn't playing at anything!' she snaps, 'I get what you're saying -'

'Do you?' he retorts, 'If shit hits the fan, we're taking on a fucking Senator. Do you have any idea what he can do to this house?' his furious eyes rake her, 'This is my family.' he steps back, shaking his head, 'You better pray the only person he goes after is me.'

Clarke sucks in a breath - she hadn't thought of that. And suddenly his anger makes a lot more sense. Shit.

'I'm sorry.' she offers quietly, 'I never meant for this to happen.'

Bellamy's eyes return to her, studying her, mouth tight.

'Next time, call for back-up.' he says finally, eyes hot and pissed, 'You and me, we might not like each other but out there? I have your back. So maybe you should have a little more trust in your team.'

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

But before she could articulate her incredulity, Bellamy has turned and is striding away, leaving her in the middle of the hallway, alone with her guilt and anger.

She doesn't follow him this time.

****

‘It’s Clarke, right?’

She turns towards the voice and freezes mid-step.

Octavia Blake stands framed in the doorway, leather jacket, emerald green t-shirt tucked into dark jeans, badge clipped to her belt, gold glinting. She tucks a slick fall of dark hair behind an ear, her light eyes taking in Clarke.

Clarke nods warily – the last time a Blake found out who she was, things did not go so well. In fact, Clarke thinks wryly as she remembers her blow-out with Bellamy last week over Cage Wallace, she’s _still_ dealing with that particular issue.

‘Detective.’ she says.

‘Octavia.’ The small brunette corrects with a sly smile, ‘Come on, Clarke – I can call you Clarke, right? – you’ve sewn me up, I’ve insulted you, we bonded. I’m pretty sure that means we can be on a first name basis.’

‘Ok. Octavia.’ Clarke accepts the offer of familiarity with some trepidation. She waves a hand at the officer, ‘How’s the arm?’

Octavia shrugs the shoulder in question. ‘Healed up just fine.’ She tilts her head, eyes sharp, ‘How’s 82?’

Clarke hooks her fingers into her back pockets, rocking back on her heels. ‘It’s been great. The guys are great.’

‘Oh please.’ Octavia scoffs, coming all the way into the station, ‘My brother’s probably been an ass.’ she grins and it’s on the right side of wicked, ‘I can arrest him for you. Leave him handcuffed on your doorstep.’

‘Uh.’ A snort tickles the base of her throat but the mental image of Bellamy handcuffed to her headboard slides into her brain and suddenly it's heat she's trying to swallow, ‘Pretty sure that’s illegal.’

‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ Octavia smirks.

Clarke can’t stop the laugh that bursts from her. ‘If it gets that bad, I’ll let you know.’

‘Trust me, I’ve been dying for an excuse to arrest him since I graduated from the Academy. You’ll be doing me a favour. Here,’ Octavia reaches back for her wallet, slips out a card and holds it out for Clarke, ‘call me anytime.’

Clarke stares down at the plain white card. All it had was Octavia’s name and a cell number. That’s it. No embellishes, no APD coat of arms, no address. Just a name and a number. It makes Clarke wonder what exactly Octavia does for APD.

Better not to know, Clarke decides, tapping the card against one palm. ‘I’ll keep that in mi –‘

‘O?’

Both women turn their heads to see Bellamy at one end of the hallway, eyes flicking from Clarke to his sister. He changes course, heads for them instead, long legs eating up the distance.

As he passes under the high row of glass windows, the sun streaks his hair blue-black, catches on his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. He’s in station uniform – boots, navy blue cargoes, black polo with its embroidered AFD emblem above his heart – the same clothes the rest of firefighters in the building are wearing.

But he stands apart.

Walking down that hallway, drenched in sunlight, he stands apart. It’s in his bearing, the broad line of his shoulders – proud and strong, in the confident, easy grace of his stride. Everything about him says that this is a man who can make a difference, a leader, a survivor. It vibrates off him in waves and his magnetism can fill a room and it’s not only the strange dreams that has Clarke wanting to move towards him.

Then his eyes slice to Clarke, narrows at the card she has in her hands, flicks to Octavia and his mouth tightens.

His obvious distaste is effective as a bucket of cold water and Clarke catches herself before she sways towards him. She grits her teeth, clears her throat, moves away from Octavia.

Octavia , who is, Clarke realizes with a start, is watching Clarke with a smug smirk on her face.

‘What do you want, O?’ Bellamy rumbles, still a couple feet away.

The brunette finally turns away from Clarke to meet his clearly wary face. ‘Nice way to greet your sister.’

‘O...’ Bellamy warns.

The smirk falls as her face turns soft. ‘I’ve got news.’

Bellamy studies Octavia briefly before inhaling roughly, ‘Alright. Let’s talk.’ His eyes moves to Clarke, a muscle ticking in his jaw and he turns to her, face tight. ‘Grif –‘

‘Got it.’ Clarke interrupts, holding her hands up, ‘I’m going.’ she aims a smile at Octavia as she turns away slowly, ‘Good to know that arm’s healed up.’

‘Uh huh.’ Octavia murmurs, the edges of her smile turning sharp again, ‘It was good talking to you, _Clarke.’_

She's about to look over her shoulder at the other woman’s strange emphasis on her name but Bellamy’s grittier tone is muttering, ‘Jesus Christ, O.’ and by the time Clarke turns, Bellamy is leading his sister out the door, one hand clamped around her upper arm.

Octavia is giggling all the way out.

Clarke plops into a chair next to Murphy and although she tries, her gaze keeps returning to the profiles of the pair standing just outside the glass doors.

Octavia’s talking, head tilted forward, one hand gesturing, the other hand’s thumb hooked into a belt loop, hip cocked. Bellamy’s listening, legs braced apart, hands on his hips, his focus sharp on whatever his sister is saying.

At first glance, Clarke muses, the Blake siblings look nothing alike. Even their dark hair are different in texture and colour – Octavia’s is finer, pin-straight and its sheen is sable brown, not the raven-wing blue of Bellamy’s thick waves.

And then, of course, there’s the obvious difference. Octavia was white. Bellamy was not – if Clarke had to hazard a guess, he’s most likely part Asian, maybe South-East blood.

Either of them could have been adopted but watching them, Clarke is now betting on the likelihood of Bellamy and Octavia being half-siblings. Because Bellamy’s proud jawline is now shown off on Octavia’s profile after she absently tucks that fall of hair behind her ear. Because when Octavia smiles, her cheekbones are a reflection of Bellamy’s – a gentler, more rounded line perhaps but that bone structure is too similar to be overlooked.

Then Bellamy’s shoulders slump in obvious relief, his head lowers and he’s smiling at the ground. He’s in profile and Clarke can only see a glimpse of the corner of his mouth tilting up but the sight still clenches her belly. This is the first time she has ever seen him smile.

Octavia moves towards him, going on tip-toe to hook a slender arm around his neck to give him a hug. One of Bellamy’s arms circles her waist and he squeezes her briefly.

Clarke tears her eyes away. She wonders at their story but hastily reminds herself that it’s none of her business.

‘Hard to look away, huh?’

Clarke starts guiltily and swivels in her seat.

She had been so absorbed in her own musings that she had missed the man leaning against the island, an amused Harper on the other side of the counter. Which goes to show just how distracted she had been because the newcomer is no one she had ever seen at the firehouse.

Even leaning, elbow on the counter, he’s clearly very tall – over 6 feet easily, mocha skinned, leanly muscled in a way that reminds Clarke of a whip. His hair is only a shadow on his otherwise shaven head. There’s a tattoo winding up the back of his neck, others on his forearms and peeking from under his white t-shirt.

When he pushes off the counter, coffee mug in hand, and saunters over to her, Clarke blinks at the badge clipped to his belt.

‘Lincoln.’ he says, offering her a long fingered hand.

She looks up into his face and blinks again.

Did they add a ‘must be stupidly attractive’ checkbox to AFD and APD job applications? Please tick yes or no? If no, we thank you for your time, the exit is that way? If yes, welcome to Arkadia’s civil service?

She realizes that she had been just staring at him and hastens to take his hand. ‘Clarke.’

His eyes flick up over her head and when his gaze comes back to hers, the corners of his light eyes crinkle. ‘I gathered.’

Uh -

Before she could ask, he shoves a hand into a pocket, gestures with his mug with the other. ‘I can relate to seeing the Blakes together. I’m Octavia’s partner.’

‘Who comes over to mooch off us,’ Murphy grumbles beside Clarke, ‘because APD coffee _sucks._ ’

‘Hey now. You know that’s not true,’ Lincoln protests mildly, ‘I come for your pretty face too.’

‘Ain’t that shit true.’ Murphy mutters, lifting a fist for Lincoln to bump, not taking his eyes off the TV.

Harper rolls her eyes as she passes the cop and collapses into the adjacent sofa. ‘The Dalmatian tonight. Lincoln, you in?’

Lincoln sucks in his lower thoughtfully. ‘Depends on whether we can close this deal tonight.’

There's a muffled yell from outside and Clarke is distracted by the sight through the glass of Jasper lifting Octavia off her feet in a hug, Bellamy stepping back quickly, grinning.

‘The Dalmatian?’ Clarke repeats absently as she tries to pull her attention back to the conversation.

‘Yup.’ Miller swaggers into view, ‘Yo, Linc.’

‘Yo.’ the cop replies dryly.

Miller nudges Harper’s feet off the sofa , ignoring her indignant ‘Hey!' and dropping into the vacant space with a satisfied sigh, ‘Bar, couple blocks down.’ he explains to Clarke, ‘It’s been a haunt for 82 firefighters since it was first built way back when. You should come tonight.’

'She is.' Raven calls from the table, words slightly muffled by the pencil she's chewing on.

'I am?'

Raven looks up from the blueprints spread in front of her and gives her a grin, more bared teeth than smile. 'You are.'

Clarke raises her hands in surrender. 'I am.'

Harper, curled on her side, lifts a fist in triumph.

'Lincoln, you ready to go? Hey guys.'

At Octavia's voice, Clarke turns back to see the brunette standing at the entrance of the common room, Jasper's arm around her neck, grinning at the chorus of 'Hey Octavia!'s and Miller’s 'Hey, ninja-girl.'. She tries to ignore Bellamy who's leaning on the door frame behind his sister even though his presence lifts the hair on the back of her neck.

Lincoln passes her with a quiet, 'Nice meeting you, Clarke.'

'You too.' she replies and watches as he exchanges those hand grasps men do where they equate their affection with the amount of effort they put into trying to crush the other man's fingers with Murphy and Miller, and smiles with Raven and Harper.

Octavia elbows Jasper in the side as Lincoln makes his way to her. 'Where's Monty?'

'Dunno.' Jasper frowns, eyes scanning the room, before arching a brow at Clarke.

She has no idea where her partner is.

'Maybe he's in the back?' she offers.

'He's across the street with Monroe, getting laundry detergent.' Miller says casually.

Bellamy snorts.

'What?' Miller tilts his head back to look at Bellamy upside down, 'We're out of detergent and some of us need to do our washing.'

Clarke presses her lips together before she can smile. Miller might be right about the detergent but she's with Bellamy on this one - Miller pays enough attention that he would know where the paramedic had disappeared off to when his best friend and partner can't locate him.

Judging by Octavia's amused expression, she hadn't missed the implication either.

Then Lincoln's there and they're turning to go when Octavia stops, swivels on her heel and looks at Clarke directly.

'I didn't place it before. You're Clarke.' she says bizarrely.

Clarke's eyebrows shoot up in confusion. 'Yeah..?'

She might not have explicitly told Octavia that she could use her first name, but thought it was implied anyway. Besides, she doubts Octavia would have listened if she had refused.

'O.' Bellamy hisses, coming off the frame.

Clarke's only warning is the apologetic flash in Octavia's green eyes.

'Wells' Clarke.'

Wells.

A dagger lances her chest at his name.

Behind the brunette, Bellamy freezes but it doesn't really register in Clarke's mind. She's too caught up in the memory of her best friend's smile.

Her dead best friend.

'You knew Wells?' she asks numbly but she's already doing the math.

'We enrolled at the Academy in the same year.' Octavia says, proving Clarke right, 'He was a good guy. I'm sorry.'

The pain in Clarke's chest gentles to a soft ache at Octavia's hesitant smile, the truth in her words.

'Thank you.'

Octavia throws her one last apologetic look and another, strangely defiant, at her brother, Clarke is now noticing, whose jaw is so tightly clenched that it looked in danger of being shattered.

'I'll walk you out.' he tells Octavia tightly, eyes furious.

From the back, the brunette's shoulders are resigned. 'I bet.'

Lincoln rubs the back of his neck, half turns to give the now quiet group a wave, and follows the tense siblings out the door.

Clarke sits there, lets the memory of Wells wash over her, bittersweet and aching. Memories tinged with regret and shame. She never told him how sorry she was, how proud she is that he followed his dream, how much she loved him.

If he had lived, would he be visiting her at the house too? Striding through that door, big grin on his face, dark eyes bright?

Her own begin to burn.

A foot nudges hers.

'You ok?' Murphy mutters.

She blinks away the ghosts, the heartache, the burn.

Murphy has a strange look on his face, like he cares and he blames Clarke for making him feel that way. The urge to laugh bubbles up and clears her head.

'Don't strain yourself, I'm fine.' she shoves his shoulder but she's smiling.

There's actual relief on Murphy's face.

'Hey.'

Clarke tilts her head back against the back of the armchair to see Raven standing behind her.

'The Dalmatian. Tonight.' Raven murmurs, tapping a finger against Clarke's forehead gently, 'We'll toast him.'

Warmth suffuses her body.

'Hell yeah.' Miller mutters and Clarke cranes her neck to see him watching her from his seat.

Harper offers a smile, sweet and soft, nodding.

Jasper walks around the back of her chair, leans in to bracket her head with his arms. He drops a loud, noisy kiss on her forehead. 'Yes, we will.'

The warmth reaches her eyes and Clarke needs to close them. This time though, the burning at the back of her eyes is different. This burn is clean, soothing and encompassing. She's starting to fall in love with these people, these people and their ability to love.

The sound of the main doors opening swishes into the silence, followed by footsteps.

Clarke opens her eyes to see Monty and Monroe hurrying in. They come to a stop, eyes scanning everyone's faces.

'Ok, what the hell happened?' Monroe breaks the silence, 'Bellamy and Octavia are in the parking lot,' she jerks a thumb behind her, 'tearing into each other. And then we come in here to find,' she waves a hand at them, ' _this_. What the hell did we miss? We were gone for like ten minutes.'

Clarke meets Monty's eyes, nods when he mouths _You ok?_ , gives him a smile when he doesn't look convinced.

Raven blows out a breath. 'A lot can happen in ten minutes.'

****

The Dalmatian is a small tavern, intimate, dimly lit with all the personality of an Old World pub. It smelled of teak, smoke and frothy beer. Their only concession to the modern world is the top of the line sound system, currently pumping classic rock, and a pool table, occupied already by Harper and Miller.

Monty and Jasper are perched on stools at the long, gleaming teak bar, chatting with the bartender. The bartender, a tall, brunette Amazon, looks up from her post as Clarke and Raven file in and grins, waving an arm.

She's cute, Clarke notices, all curly bronze hair and creamy skin in a black tank-top. And, as the bartender lifts the pass-through to snag empties from the nearest table, legs up to her ears.

'Gina.'

She glances over to see Raven watching her with a raised brow. 'What?'

'Her name.' Raven nods in the bartender's direction, 'Gina Martin.'

'Oh. She's cute.'

Raven snorts and leads her over to the bar, 'Yup, everyone seems to think so.'

Gina winks as they slide in next to Jasper and Monty. 'Hey, Raven.'

'Gina.'

The bartender's gaze lands on Clarke. 'I know what Raven wants, how about you?'

'Wine. Dry red, if you have it. White's fine, if you don't.'

'A woman who knows what she wants. I like you already.'

Clarke laughs and is rewarded by Gina's smile, easy and sweet.

'Look, I know house wine's reputation but we have a really _really_ nice red.' Gina cocks her head, 'I think you'd enjoy it.'

'Perfect.' Clarke leans forward, chin on her cupped hand. 'Just put it in a big glass.'

'The biggest.' Gina promises with another wink before pushing from the bar.

'She's good.' Clarke murmurs, watching Gina sashay away.

Jasper tips his beer in her direction and Monty smiles into his drink.

Raven hums, shrugging out of her jacket. 'She's interested.'

'Or she could be just be a bartender who's good at her job and reading people.'

Raven fluffs out her hair, lips pursing into a thoughtful moue. 'Business _has_ picked up since she started a couple of weeks back.'

Clarke sighs and unwinds the thin scarf around her neck, just as Gina makes it back with their drinks.

'So,' she throws coasters down in front of them, 'is it really your first time here?' she asks Clarke as she hands Raven her beer, 'Or is it just my first time seeing you?'

'First guess.' Clarke accepts her wine gratefully and drinks deep. When Gina presses her lips together to hide her smile, Clarke laughs ruefully, 'It's been one of those days.' she lifts the wine glass, 'You were right, by the way, this _is_ very nice.'

'I'm glad.' Gina murmurs, leaning into the bar. Her eyes flick to Raven in deliberate conversation with Monty and Jasper, 'How do you know Raven?'

'We -'

'Gina.'

At the call, both women turn their heads, Clarke with a startled drop in her belly.

Across the room, partially gilded by the light hanging low over the pool table, Bellamy stood, pool cue in hand, face carefully impassive, although Miller is smirking at the balls on the table.

Bellamy raises the beer in his other hand. 'Can we get another round?'

'Sure.' the bartender calls back and in a lower voice to Clarke, 'Sorry, duty calls.'

Clarke tears her eyes away from Bellamy back to Gina. 'No yeah, yeah, of course.'

After Gina had moved away, Clarke sneaks another look over her shoulder. Bellamy has moved away and is now leaning deep and low over the table, lining up a shot.

He's broad shouldered and lean in a dark long-sleeved Henley and Clarke is having trouble looking away from the veins in his outstretched forearm as they disappear into his bunched up sleeve. His face is all sharp lines and slashing cheekbones under the harsh light, wide mouth tight in concentration, dark eyes narrowed at the black eight ball as he re-adjusts his grip on the handle of his cue.

Her mouth goes dry.

There's always something illegally attractive about guys - especially if it's a guy who looks like Bellamy Blake - playing pool.

'That was quite the pointed cock-block.' Jasper mutters.

With a snap, Clarke comes to guiltily and she spins around in her seat. She avoids Monty's knowing eyes and instead focuses on Jasper.

'What?'

'What?' Jasper bugs his eyes out innocently, 'I didn't say anything.'

'Yes, you -,' Clarke waves a hand and instead leans over to whisper, 'When did Bellamy get here?'

'He was already here,' Raven interjects with a wry smile, ' when we walked in.' she takes a delicate pull from her bottle and stares straight ahead, 'You were a little preoccupied with Gina's legs.'

Clarke glares at her flatmate, opens her mouth but closes it again when Gina walks by, beers on a tray.

She turns, tells herself that she's watching the bartender, even though her eyes move again to Bellamy beyond Gina. His eyes meet hers and -

_'I'm yours.' she slides against his bare back, her mouth brushes against the shell of his ear, 'Only yours.'_

'Clarke?'

She comes to with a start, grabbing the bar to keep from pitching off her stool.

'Whoa.' she laughs unsteadily, meeting Raven's amused gaze, 'That wine really went to my head.'

Raven glances in Bellamy's direction. 'Right.' she says drily.

'You're not as subtle as you think, Clarke.' Monty murmurs and his lips twitch when she glares at him.

'Neither are you.' she mutters under her breath.

She's seen the way her partner watched Miller around the station. It was cute but it was twice as cute because Miller did the same thing. She wonders how long that had been going on.

Monty only shrugs a slender shoulder at her. 'At least I don't fool myself into thinking that I'm being inconspicuous.' he winks at her, 'If you want to know something, just ask.'

Huffing out a breath, Clarke gives up the charade and gives into her curiosity. 'Bellamy and Octavia.'

'Ah yes, the Blake siblings.' Jasper tilts his glass in her direction.

'Same mother, different fathers.' Raven says crisply, answering Clarke's unspoken question.

'I figured.' Clarke says, 'At first I thought one of them had been adopted but that jawline and cheekbones are a dead giveaway.'

Raven snorts wryly. 'Yep, it's like they were heaped with good looks to try and make up for the fuckery of their childhood.'

Clarke's head snaps up, shock and ice crawling up her spine. 'I'm not going to want to hear the rest of that story, am I?'

'It's not exactly of bedtime ilk.' Jasper says though he tries to soothe the bitterness in his tone with a smile.

'Look,' Raven leans forward, 'some things are AFD legend.' her lips tip up in an ironic smile, 'Like my leg - basically every firefighter in the department knows why its ripped up.' she cocks her head, eyes serious and steady, 'Sooner or later, you're going to hear something about the Blakes. I mean, one's a Lieutenant and the other is…well, no one knows exactly what she is, just that she's part of some badass, super-cop task force. People like to talk about people like the Blakes. It can suck for them.'

'So you can ask us,' Monty says softly, 'Or you can ask Bellamy or Octavia.'

Clarke can never ask now - knowing that there was tragedy in their stories, she can never ask. She knows how it feels to have gut-wrenching pain in your past. Pain that defined you, pain that you cannot shake fully. She can't talk about her own, she'd never ask another about theirs.

But she's not going to ask her friends either.

That would be crossing a line.

'I'll ask them.' she lies quietly.

Raven tilts her head to the side, studying her and Clarke knows that Raven can tell she's lying. But the firefighter doesn't call her out on it, just nods and sips her beer. Then she's smirking at Clarke.

'You know,' she says slyly, 'for a girl who professes hate for the guy, you're sure interested in his life's story.'

Clarke snorts and rolls her eyes. 'Don't even start.'

'I'm just saying -'

'I don't want to hear what you're 'just saying'!'

' - hate sex is a thing!'

Clarke chokes on her wine.

'Yeah, not going to happen.' she coughs out through a burning throat.

'Why not?' Jasper wants to know.

'Bellamy hates me.' she points out the obvious.

'You can do better than that, Griffin.' Raven sneers. At the same time Jasper is snickering and whispering conspiratorially, 'That's why it's called _hate sex._ '

Monty leans over. 'And he doesn't hate you.'

Clarke raises a brow in disbelief. 'Where have you been the last couple of months?'

'Fine - he doesn't hate you _anymore_.' Monty amends smoothly, 'You just - you confuse him.'

Clarke gapes then waves her friends away.

She has no idea what's going through their brains but they couldn't be more wrong. She can't hide the fact that she's attracted to Bellamy, even if its against her will. But its even more complicated than they could ever imagine and they'd probably think she had inhaled too much smoke if she tried to explain.

Hell, Clarke thinks, her eyes drifting again to Bellamy now in conversation with Gina, easy grin on his face, she can't even explain it.

She ignores the burning in her stomach when Bellamy laughs, reaching out to tug a curl of Gina's hair. He looks care-free and playful and she hates the fact that she wanted to be the one he looked at like that. Hated the fact she wanted to be the one to make Bellamy laugh like that. Hated the fact that all she gets from him is anger and distaste and scorn.

Clarke reaches for her glass, upends it and pastes a smile on her face when Raven tilts her head at her in concern.

What can she say?

When Miller calls Monty over for a match, Clarke averts her eyes from the men at the billiard table. But every now and then, when she hears Bellamy's deep, rich laugh coming from that section, she can't help but wonder about him, about his story, his childhood.

She knows who he is in the field, who is he is at work. She thinks of the man she knows in her dreams. She cannot reconcile them.

Who is Bellamy Blake?

****

That night, she dreams of fingers sliding down her arm, the warmth of bare skin along the length of her back and down the line of her thighs. She dreams of a hand sliding into the space between her arm and where it lies on her waist.

In her dreams, the hand presses gently into the soft, vulnerable flesh on her belly and as it applies pressure, Clarke obeys its touch and shifts to her back.

_'What's wrong?'_

_She looks up into his shadowed face and all she can make out in the darkness is the line of his cheekbone._

_'Nothing.' she denies._

_Lies. Lies. Lies._

_To distract herself from the voice, she pushes him to his back, straddles him and leans down to kiss him. He resists for a second but then responds, his hands coming up to cup her face. The gentleness with which he touches her hurts her chest._

_Then he pulls back._

_She can't see him clearly in the darkness but she feels his eyes on her face, searching. Then, to her relief, he pulls her down again to him, kisses her harder than she expects and the sting of his teeth is a relief._

_It becomes a rush now, fumbling hands and clumsy fingers. A missed kiss as she leans in for his mouth and finds his cheek instead. They are out of sync and it should feel wrong but it doesn't - it's just a different type of tragedy and it somehow adds to the desperate fire in her._

_He arches up into a sitting position, she lifts up on her knees, feels his hand brushing her inner thighs, another on her hip, pushing her down and she follows his wordless direction. Sinks down onto him, feels him stretch her to breathtaking fullness, feels him shudder against her and hears him groan her name, she buries her face in his neck. His hand leaves her hip to fist in her hair and he holds her against him, tight and hard._

_When she is moving against him almost mindlessly, he pulls her away from him. She assumes he wants her to kiss and obeys his touch, quietly desperate._

_'Tell me what's wrong.' he whispers against her mouth._

_She freezes, heart nearly bursting._

_He takes advantage of her stillness, flips them, begins moving again, deep but slow._

_She arches up into him. 'Faster.'_

_He leans in to kiss her neck, sweet and gentle, and maintains his grueling pace. 'Tell me.'_

_And she gives in because the pressure building in her body matches the pressure building in her heart and she needs to relieve both._

_'Maia.' she finally gasps, hooking a leg around his hip, taking him even deeper._

_It is his time to still and she hisses in frustration, pushing him until she's back to straddling him. His hand comes up to pull her down and she resists._

_'Whatever you are thinking, it is -'_

_'I do not want to know.' she gasps out but her eyes burn and the tears that escape her closed lids contradict her._

_She continues to move, reaching for completion mindlessly. With a muted growl, he grasps her upper arms and flips them again, returning their frantic pace to a slow, burning slide._

_'If you cannot trust my words,' he tells her, lifting up on an arm, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, 'Then trust this.' he places a hand on her breast, above her heart. He leans in to kiss her, 'And if you cannot trust that,' he murmurs against her mouth, 'then trust this.' his fingers brush against her belly. 'Your heart knows me and your instinct has not failed you thus far. Trust them.'_

His words are still echoing in her head when Clarke wakes up, eyes on the ceiling, heart racing.

It's barely dawn and she tosses to her side, squeezing her eyes tight.

What is wrong with her?

****

It must be full moon.

Or something - anything to explain the shift she and Monty have had.

It seemed that all of Arkadia had some sort of emergency that needed EMTs and they must have spent a total amount of 30 minutes at the station. Every time they finished a job and were heading back, dispatch called in another emergency.

By the time, Monty pulled into the station, it was almost 5am and they were both dead on their feet. They pulled themselves out of the ambulance wearily, Clarke wrapping an arm around Monty's waist as they trudged slowly towards the dark station.

They had about an hour left on shift and Clarke was begging every deity out there that they could spend it under blankets.

'One hell of a night.' Monty slurs, slinging an arm around her shoulders. 'But we did good.'

'Yes, we did.' Clarke smiles at him tiredly.

She pushes the swing door open and it takes some clever manoeuvring, but they squeeze in without letting go of each other.

Clarke suspects that if either of them let go at this point, they'd both end up on the floor in a graceless heap.

Personally, she can do without the added pain.

The common room is dark, the TV silent, table empty, everyone long gone to bed. Except as they round the corner, Clarke realises that she was wrong.

Bellamy's behind the long counter in the kitchen. He looks up as they enter and Clarke nearly misses a step when his eyes hit her and his brows draw down.

Now what?

'Thank you, God.' Monty mutters.

She only has a second to process before he releases her and makes a beeline for the steaming mugs on the counter. Monty slumps into a stool, pulling a mug towards him and taking a long grateful sip. Clarke is left standing in the room awkwardly.

She decides that it would be pitiful to ask Monty for a sip from his cup and is about to continue on to the sleeping quarters when Bellamy pushes the other mug towards her.

He doesn't say anything, just leans back against the sink and watches her with an inscrutable expression.

Her bleary eyes land on the mug.

Fuck it.

Clarke gives in, joins Monty at the counter and wraps her frozen fingers around the stoneware, grateful for the heat that sears her flesh. The first sip is heaven and she feels ridiculous that something as simple as hot tea can make her eyes burn.

But it has been one of those shifts.

'Hungry?' Bellamy asks softly.

Monty shakes his head and offers him a grateful grin. Clarke keeps her head down and doesn't reply.

She and Monty drink their tea in exhausted quiet, Bellamy a silent sentry.

Clarke doesn't look up at him but she can't ignore his presence and she knows from the way her skin prickles that he has not taken his eyes off her. She wishes he would because she's too tired to fight the emotion that is dragged up because he did something nice. Very nice, actually. But one act doesn't erase everything else. And he probably did it for Monty, she just happened to be there and Bellamy might be an asshole but he isn't heartless.

Still.

She hates him and he hates her and how fucked up is it that all she wants to do is crawl into his arms and sleep for a year?

Clarke stares into her mug.

God, it's too tiring to deal with this shit right now - it's too tiring to think of the way her tattooed wrist burns around him, how the air shimmers around him when she looks at him, how she knows he's looking at her by the tingles running up her back, how she _misses_ him when she has no right to - all of it is just too tiring to think about because _none of it made any fucking sense._

She's still got half of her cup to finish when Miller pads in on socked feet, rubbing his face.

'Any word yet?' he asks the room at large before his eyes focus on the trio in the kitchen. He blinks, recovers, grins tiredly, 'You're back.'

He was not talking to Clarke.

'Waiting up, Nate?' Monty quips, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

To Clarke's amusement, Miller's mouth opens, closes, and there's a definite flush on his cheeks.

'Falling asleep at the wheel is a real thing.' the firefighter mutters, almost sheepishly.

'I know.' Monty's smile turns soft.

Miller studies him and Clarke just wants to drag Bellamy out of the room so that these two can have it to themselves. Then Miller grins at Monty, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

'Glad you're back safe.' his eyes go to Clarke, 'Both of you.'

Clarke wiggles her fingers at him and Miller blushes again when her smile turns teasing.

'Ok.' Monty exhales, 'I'm done for the night. Thanks.' he aims at Bellamy and nudges Clarke with his shoulder, 'Night, partner.'

She presses the side of her arm against him briefly in reply and Monty flashes her smile as he hops off his stool. Clarke watches as he and Miller melt into the darkness of the hallway leading to the sleeping quarters.

They make an unlikely couple but she thinks that's why they would work.

Then she becomes aware of the silence Miller and Monty had left in their wake and is suddenly painfully conscious that she's alone with Bellamy.

'Are you hungry?' Bellamy repeats quietly and her eyes fly to him.

'I don't need you to wait on me.' she snaps defensively.

'I wasn't offering to.' he shoots back, 'Jesus.'

Then his eyes close and his hands come up to rub at his face, 'Look.' he says on an exhaled breath, 'I'm pissed tired and you're dead on your feet. So how 'bout we call it quits for tonight? Tomorrow you can go back to hating me.' his jaw ripples yet his eyes are steady on hers, 'Right now, one of my own just walked in after a 48 hour shift and I have no fucking clue when was the last time she ate.'

At his words, something inside her slides into place and the click is so loud, she hears it in her head.

Her vision wavers, goes black around the edges and -

_'Why did you choose me?'_

_His disembodied voice, grit and smoke, comes to her from the darkness. It echoes in the cavern that is his forge and though it lies dark and untouched, the air carries the warmth of the ocean of fire under their feet. She cannot see him and the thought that he is watching her from somewhere in the shadows is a little disconcerting._

_But that is not why she has come._

_'I did not think you would agree.' she says honestly._

_Silence._

_'If you wish, I can decline your offer.'_

_'That is not why I have come.' she denies swiftly._

_'Has desperation cornered you so completely that you would choose me?'_

_Yes. Yes, it has._

_'Why did you agree?' she demands._

_Silence again._

_'Pity.' he replies finally. 'A forced hand is never an easy choice to make.'_

_No, not pity, she thinks, compassion._

_'I want an ally in this pit of snakes.' he continues, 'You need one.'_

_She has her answer._

_'I do.' she agrees readily. 'And you would have one in me.'_

_A laugh, heavy with irony, 'You would pledge your loyalty to a man you know nothing of?'_

_Not entirely true._

_'No,' she replies, 'I would pledge my loyalty to the man that is to be my husband.'_

_There is a brief silence before his chuckle slides from the darkness again._

_'Betray me and your bones will serve as kindling.' he tells her, 'As long as you keep your word, you will have everything I am at your back. That is my offer and vow to you, Venus, daughter of Saturn.'_

_She lifts her chin, pushes back the covering on her hair and lifting her face to the light. She knows he can see her clearly and gives him her answer._

_'I accept your offer, Vulcan, son of Jupiter.'_

She wobbles and slides off her stool.

Her arm already comes out to catch herself, but she never hits the floor. Bellamy appears next to her, fingers tight around her arm, keeping her steady.

'Are you okay?'

His voice is sharp but for the first time, it's not with anger or dislike.

'Yeah.' Clarke mutters, holding on to the counter for dear life.

The world has not stopped spinning behind her closed lids and she plants a foot on the floor to make sure she doesn't go down again, ignoring the heat of Bellamy's hands on her shoulder and back.

When the worse of the vertigo has passed, she opens her eyes, gives him a little nod.

He releases her but doesn't move away.

'What the hell was that?'

'I -' she bites her tongue, 'I'm just tired.'

What else can she say?

I just had a waking dream where _your_ voice called me by a different name - a name that belongs, I'm pretty sure, to an ancient Roman goddess. Also, I have no idea who Vulcan is in Roman mythology, but I'm almost certain he's a god - Jupiter's a god, right? So the son of Jupiter would be a god too?. And we're engaged. In my dreams. Oh, and I've dreaming of this guy since we've met and I'm also pretty sure he's you. Like ninety-nine percent sure. Did I also mention we've had sex? Loads of times. In my dreams. And now, we're engaged. In my dreams. We've had _sex_ and we're _engaged._ In my fuc -

'Bullshit.'

Her eyes fly to him. 'I - I beg your pardon?'

'Beg all you want, princess.' he snaps, folding his arms across his chest and looming over her. 'I saw your eyes. They glazed over and went blank.'

'That happens when you're about to faint.' she says carefully.

'Bullshit.' this time it's quiet, 'Your eyes don't go blank and you don't sit frozen for ten fucking seconds if you're about to faint - because you'd just fucking _faint_.'

Is that how long she'd been out?

It had seemed like longer. Much longer.

Clarke wants to ask but the look on Bellamy's face reminds her that they were having a completely different conversation.

And how can she explain it to him? How can she explain it to anyone? The pressure of it all and her exhaustion makes her irritable and defensive and she snaps at him.

'Back off.' she warns, keeping her eyes steady on his. 'Now.'

His jaw ripples and his mouth tightens but he takes a step back, hold her gaze, then -

'Do you wanna eat or not?'

She blinks in surprise and searches his face but there's only resignation and weariness.

He really is letting this go.

God, weird _visions_ that feel heavy and meaningful, Bellamy being nice to her, making her tea and offering to make her food - it _really_ must be full moon. There's no other logical explanation for what's going on tonight.

Clarke sucks in a breath and the gratitude and relief makes her woozy and uneasy.

She bites her lip, nods. 'I'll help.'

'Sit.' He waves her off, backing away, 'You’re not going anywhere near a stove until you've had about twelve hours of sleep.'

She doesn't protest.

So, she sits there, finishes her tea while he moves on the other side of the counter, taking out pasta, milk and butter and herbs, his movements clean, easy and practised. In the end, he makes her mac and cheese and when he sets the steaming bowl in front of her, Clarke offers him a tentative smile.

Smiling is allowed under their temporary truce, right?

Bellamy's eyes move across her face and, unexpectedly, they soften.

It sends something hot and blazing into her chest and Clarke ducks her head, heartbeat rising, unsure what to do. She fully expects him to leave, job done, but he doesn't. Instead, he makes himself a cup and rounds the corner to slide into Monty's vacated stool.

She glances at him under her lashes but when he continues to stare ahead, she gives in, picks up the fork and digs in.

It's hot and creamy and perfect and she doesn't tell him that mac and cheese is her favourite comfort food and that the tears that well isn't because her mouthful is burning the roof of her mouth and her tongue.

She can handle the heat.

But this - this quiet camaraderie, his solid presence, the dreams, the weariness - is crashing down on her and she's not sure how to handle it.

In fact, Clarke's not even sure if she hates Bellamy.

They don't speak and he lets her eat in peace, but she finds comfort in his presence and it's the most unnerving thing she has experienced all shift.

The quiet is broken as the house comes slowly awake, as the dawn slowly moves across the tiled floor, as the room lightens. Still, they don't move even though her bowl is finished and Bellamy's coffee has cooled.

When Raven walks in, she lifts a dark brow but she doesn't comment, just walks over to pour herself coffee.

Bellamy clears his throat and shifts off the stool. Clarke misses his heat straight away.

'Truce over, princess.' he murmurs.

Her stomach drops.

She glances up at him as he passes but he doesn't seem his usual cynical self, he just looks tired and in need of sleep, a comb and a shave.

When he disappears from sight, Clarke catches Raven, mug in hand, studying her.

'What was that?' the brunette asks, eyes going to where Bellamy had disappeared.

Clarke lifts helpless, exhausted shoulders. 'I have no idea.'

And when it comes to Bellamy, not knowing is terrifying.


	2. Oh But My Darling (What If You Fly?): 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2
> 
> (if Part 2 hasn't been posted by the time you see this, don't worry - you won't have to wait another 2 months, I'm just doing some last minute edits)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers, comment and/or kudos leavers: you guys ROCK. Seriously. The response to the first chapter was...astounding. I love each and every one of you who decided to give my first AU a try :D. Thank you so much for the love, encouragement and passion!! I'm so sorry it took so long to get the next chap up but hopefully y'all are still holding on! Oh! And this was nominated for best WIP! Thank you to everyone who nominated/voted :D Did I mention you guys rock? Bc you do :D
> 
> To Kels who pushed through moving, abode-hunting, a painful roadblock to beta and pat me on the head when I was at my wit's end: ride or effin die, girl. That's all I can say. You my hero.
> 
> Alright - here we go! (Btw, if you hadn't noticed, chap 2 was broken up into 2 parts bc it got crazy long :/)

'Raven, get up, it's after five.'

Silence.

'Raven!'

A low groan, a muffled vibrating thump, like a pillow had hit the door, then - 'Fuck off, Griffin.'

Clarke grins as she moves past her flatmate's door.

Raven isn't exactly a morning person.

In the bathroom, under the spray, Clarke lets the warmth of the water seep into her neck, unknotting tight muscles. Her mood sobers as she looks down at her hands through water blurred eyes. Hands whose palms still remembered the feeling of hot, sleek flesh under them.

Her dreams are getting worse.

Well, not worse - just sharper, more vivid, more coherent, more real, just _more_.

They have been ever since the night she and Bellamy called a temporary ceasefire, the night he made her tea and mac and cheese and sat at her side as she ate. The night she learned the name of the man who was Bellamy but not, the woman whose body Clarke inhabited in her sleep.

At first Clarke had thought the strength of her dreams were just a phase, brought about by exhaustion and slip of her shields.

But that was a week ago.

To make it worse, she's beginning to get used to the dreams, beginning to get used to the feeling that she's living another life while asleep. In fact, there were times when Clarke woke up and in those first few seconds of consciousness, wasn't exactly sure whether she'd be opening her eyes to ruby-red drapes or snow-white curtains.

Maybe she needed to see someone about this, a professional, a therapist.

Sex dreams? Ok.

Dreaming that she's a Roman goddess? The goddess of beauty and love? A little egotistical, but everyone had weird dreams - even recurring ones too.

Waking up unsure what her real name was? Red flags.

Finally giving in to the gnawing curiosity, she had googled Vulcan last night and it turned out that she was right - he was an Ancient Roman god. God of Fire and Blacksmith to the gods. And he was married to Venus. Her stomach had dropped as she sat there reading and re-reading that passage over again.

How could she have known that?

Out of desperation, she had asked Raven what she knew of Roman mythology. The brunette's reply was a side-eye, a shrug, and an almost smirking suggestion to ask Bellamy because he was a 'fucking huge nerd on all things Roman'. Clarke had snapped her laptop shut and, rubbing her tattoo, had tried to keep from hyperventilating until Raven had left the room.

Yeah, it might be a good idea to see a therapist.

But it wasn't all bad.

For a week now, despite Bellamy's last words to her that night that turned into dawn, their truce survived.

It was a little edgy, a little strained and sometimes she would catch Bellamy watching her with this look on his face like he was at war with himself. Her stomach would plummet, wondering if nothing had changed after all.

Her fears and wariness never eventuated, however, and she hoped against hope that things have changed. Partially because she was starting to get used to this version of Bellamy Blake and partially because - well, she was starting to like him, started to appreciate his gift with sarcasm because it's no longer directed at her with teeth.

It didn't undo everything that has happened before but everyone deserved second cha-

 _Be careful_ , a tired voice says in her head, _aren't you tired of being hurt?_

There's too much and experience behind that thought.

And then, there's the dreams to consider and really, it's just a disaster waiting to happen.

Clarke shuts off the water with more force than necessary. She refuses to think of anything Roman or Bellamy look-alikes again as she dresses for work. Instead she listens to Raven's muttered cursing as the firefighter runs around the apartment in her usual morning flurry.

She snaps a band around the end of her french braid, tucks in the black long-sleeved t-shirt with its white AFD logo and adjusts the heavy standard issue belt around her hips. Waterproof eyeliner and mascara. A swipe of tinted lip balm that needs re-applying after she kisses the pendant of a stylised stethoscope hanging from the long, thin, silver chain around her neck before tucking it under her t-shirt. It rests, warming quickly, against her chest.

Raven ducks into her room. 'Ready?' she asks, ponytail swinging, hopping as she zips up her pants.

Clarke looks up from lacing up her boots, shakes her head fondly and stands. 'You're hopeless.'

'I'm awesome.' Raven sneers, then, 'Shit, my boots.'

She ducks out again at a run and Clarke bites back a laugh as she sprits with perfume. Still, she has no trouble believing that Raven would still be fully dressed and ready to go in the time it took Clarke to throw her phone into her bag and walk to the door.

Raven, Clarke has come to understand, was a master of multi-tasking. Another thing she had learnt was that she was living with a tech genius.

A good number of 82 had side jobs - Miller owned his own construction company (in fact, he was responsible for the renovations on their flat and was the reason the place had such great lighting).

Monroe and Harper were instructors at a firing range.

Bellamy - _nope, not thinking about you._

Murphy had something going online that Clarke did _not_ want to ask about.

And Raven? Raven teamed up with Jasper and Monty to build complicated devices of their own design, for some huge names, that ranged from a transmitter the size of a fly to what looked like a innocuous chunk of obsidian but probably packed enough power to down a city grid.

Clarke might have even seen a folder with NASA's logo lying around the apartment but she wasn't too sure.

It wouldn’t surprise her though.

She walks out of her room and sure enough, Raven was waiting at the door.

See?

Master.

Finally at the station, Raven hip-checks the swing door and they are greeted by the scent of pancakes, bacon, coffee and Harper's voice.

' - a real job because I'm just a volunteer here. Like, what the actual fuck?'

Harper's sister - her snide, pretentious, 'I'm a criminal lawyer, what do you do?' sister - must have pissed her off again.

They clear the corridor to see Harper and Monty on the sofas. Murphy is idly flipping through channels, a plate of pancakes in one hand, and Jasper is at the stove in the kitchen, dripping batter into a sizzling pan. Bellamy, Miller and Monroe are at the table, the later two digging into breakfast.

Raven zooms towards the percolator and coffee.

Bellamy is leaning back in a chair, feet up on another. There's a newspaper, propped up against his thighs. Clarke allows the flash of heat at the sight of him to lick into her belly before her feet stops moving altogether.

Bellamy, thermal navy tee, dark cargo pants and boots, wild black curls, one muscular arm on the table, coffee mug in hand, is wearing _glasses_.

The unexpected sight, combined with the small furrow between his eyebrows, the little smile on his wide mouth, gentles his profile, turns him into someone more than the edgy Lieutenant she's used to.

And it sends a different sort of heat, a bolt of something soft and warm, to her chest.

'Firefighting is a real job.' Bellamy mutters absently, not looking away from his newspaper, 'It's been around since twenty four BC.' his voice slips into a rhythm, slow and easy, and Clarke finds it hard to tear her attention away from what he's saying. 'It's been a job ever since Emperor Augustus established the first public fire department.' he continues, 'The original incarnation of the _Vigiles Urbani_ were six hundred slaves spread across seven fire stations before they allowed the free citizens of Rome to join.' he shrugs a shoulder, still not looking up, 'It's a noble profession and there's also the small fact that we're saving lives - it doesn't get much more real than that. Tell your sister that.'

Clarke's eyebrows shoot up.

Holy crap, Raven was right - Bellamy Blake, the Roman History nerd.

She squeezes her eyes tight and contemplates turning around and running, screaming, from the house.

Ancient fucking Rome.

Again.

A frisson of electricity shoots up her spine and Clarke opens her eyes to see Bellamy looking at her, a pointed grin spreading across his face.

'And,' he smirks, sliding off his glasses and tossing them on the table, 'they even had their own version of paramedics - usually aging Centurions who couldn't fight anymore.'

The spell broken, Clarke rolls her eyes at him.

'You calling me old, Blake?' she scoffs as she passes, heading for the coffee. 'You have how many years on me again?'

'Hey.' Bellamy's voice comes low and easy, 'I'm in top shape.'

'Really.' she bites her lip, stares into her mug. 'I hadn't noticed.'

Liar, liar, you're going to need a hydrant to put out those pants on fire.

Then, beside her, Raven snorts and thankfully distracts her from the taunting voice in her head, the memories of the times she's seen Bellamy leading his team in practice drills in front of the house or finishing a sparring match, sweat slickened.

'Whoa, hold up, Emperor Augustus, you said?' the brunette asks, 'Isn't he the one with the sister named Octavia?' she starts laughing as Clarke turns around in time to Bellamy scowl, 'Please don't tell me that's why you named _your_ sister -'

'For fuck's sake,' Bellamy grunts, 'I was six years old, okay?'

Murphy howls and Miller rubs a fist over his mouth to hide his grin.

'Does Octavia know that your Ancient Roman kink, ' the other Lieutenant asks, 'led to her christening?'

Bellamy flips Miller off as he rocks to his feet and stretches. The fact her eyes slide to the tanned belly shown is a warning bell, loud and strident in Clarke's ears.

Bellamy. Kink. Ancient Rome. That ridiculously ridged belly.

'Can we please talk about something other than Bellamy's obsession with a long-dead civilization?' Clarke mutters to no one in particular, pushing away from the counter.

Lightening fast, Bellamy grabs her hand as she passes him, electricity flashing up her arm at his touch, and turns it so that the tattoo on her inner wrist is displayed.

' _All roads lead to Rome_?' he says with a superior smirk, 'You're the one with the Latin ink,' he leans into her slightly and his head cocks, tongue darting out to touch his lower lip as his eyes move over her face. 'but I'm the one obsessed?'

He's got you there.

This close she can not only smell his aftershave, she can practically taste it and the scent of him unfurls on her tongue, feeding her senses with the bitterness of smoke and the bite of glittering jet.

The combination of his scent and the teasing gleam in his dark eyes are a dangerous mix that sends pinpricks of heat up her arms.

But all Clarke does is throw Bellamy a scathing look, wrenching back her hand, 'Latin may be inscribed on my skin,' she tilts her head back to meet his smirking gaze, 'but you're the one translating it. I'm guessing _you_ ,' she poked him in the chest, 'actually studied it.'

She's speaking from instinct but when his brow arches and he keeps silent, she knows she was right.

He does know Latin.

That fact shouldn't be attractive, right?

'But I'm the one obsessed?' she taunts softly.

Bellamy's teeth glint in a grin, sharp and all edge.

 _'Oo_ ,' he leans in to murmur, his eyes falling to her mouth, 'obsessed _ako_.'

The syllables roll off his tongue in a lyrical wave and the sound of them tightens her throat.

'That wasn't Latin.' Clarke says quietly.

She takes a step towards him and closes the distance between them without it even registering.

She wants to hear him say the words again. And again. And again.

It's not Latin, but it's beautiful.

'It's Tagalog.' Bellamy returns softly, lips quirking again.

Her lips start to tilt up in response.

Tagalog.

Then the smile slips as she freezes.

She had chosen the Latin translation for her tattoo because she felt it more fitting. Not because she knew up from down when it came to understanding the ancient tongue.

So how the hell did she know?

The only explanation that came to mind was that it didn't _feel_ Latin.

Which wasn't an explanation at all actually.

Jasper coughs loudly from behind the island and Clarke starts. Then realising that she was practically pressed against him - how the hell did they get that close? -, she jumps away hurriedly, her face flaming.

Bellamy eases back from her, clearing his throat roughly, 'Fuck.'

He shakes his head like he's trying to clear it.

'I hate to interrupt this weird mating dance thing you two got going,' Jasper gestures at them with a spatula, 'but you're letting my food get cold.'

When she sees that the common room had been watching, Clarke wants to spontaneously combust. She glares at Raven's smirk, avoids Monty's eyes and turns to Jasper, her face flaming hot at her Jasper's words, her cheeks must be glowing.

Mating dance?

She wasn't flirting - why would she be flirting with Bellamy? And _he_ couldn't have been flirting, he hates her. And she, well - he's been an asshole to her.

So there.

She wasn't flirting.

She wasn't.

'So, you,' Jasper blithely continues, jabbing the spatula in Clarke's direction, 'sit. Eat. We can get called out at any second. And you,' he turns to Bellamy, falters at whatever he's seeing on Bellamy's face, 'Lieutenant, Sir.' Jasper grins weakly, 'More coffee?'

The sound of the siren drowns out anything Bellamy might have said.

Desperately grateful, Clarke races out and tells herself that's she just eager to get out there.

It sounded like a lie but she's getting used to lying to herself now.

****

'Need a medic over here!'

Clarke's head lifts at Bellamy's call over the radio. Monty nods at her, spitting out the plastic cover of a syringe as he grabs their victim's hand.

The victim, an unconscious woman, blood soaking the blonde hair at her temple, looked to have been ejected from one of the two vehicles involved in the accident they were responding to.

'Go,' Monty instructs, running an experienced gloved thumb across the faint network of veins in the woman's wrist, 'I got this.'

Clarke scrambles to her feet, sweeping up the handle of a med kit as she runs towards the Toyota Voxy surrounded by firefighters. It had been run off the road, onto the sidewalk and straight into a telephone pole. The front of the mini-van was crushed into a vee where the pole dug deep into the bonnet upon impact.

To Clarke's left, Miller called out orders as Truck Company moves into place to extract the driver of the other car, a white Rabbit, on its side in the middle of the road. Harper is hefting herself up onto the upturned doors as Clarke runs by.

‘Get that window.’ Bellamy is directing Raven as Clarke closes in.

He’s standing beside the front passenger’s door, studying the interior, brows drawn down. Murphy is on the other side and she can hear him talking to the driver, a girl in her teens, through the closed window.

The smell of diesel gets heavier with her every step and she can taste it on her tongue, in her lungs, heavy, cloying with the tang of iron and salt. Clarke swallows down the churning nausea in her belly.

She has a job to do.

‘What am I dealing with?’ she calls over the sound of breaking glass.

She keeps her eyes on what she can see of the victim but she knows the exact moment Bellamy glances at her, heat licking up the back of her neck.

She’s getting used to it now.

She doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing.

‘Victim’s name is Mariana.’ Bellamy says, ‘Seems to be talking fine but she can’t move her left leg and Murphy sees lacerations to her chest and shoulder.’ he pauses as Clarke crouches next to him, opening the medkit, ‘Need you in there with me.’

A look at Mariana softens the bolt of terror that spears her chest at the thought of climbing into that steel-trap blanketed by the reek of diesel.

She’ll get past this fear one day.

Then Clarke glances up at Bellamy, meets his dark gaze under the brim of his helmet. Despite the frantic energy crackling around them, the sound of heavy power tools, shattering glass and screeching metal, his eyes are calm, steady, on hers.

She jerks her chin up. 'You got it.'

The corner of his lips quirk in a flash of a grin and then he's turning to Raven and Monroe. 'Alright, let's do this.'

Grasping the roof of the vehicle, Bellamy hefts up and swings himself, feet first, into the now opened window of the rear passenger seat. Clarke sees him squeezing between the seats to talk to Mariana. Bellamy wasn't exactly a small guy and it's already a tight squeeze without adding Clarke to the mix.

'Ready, Clarke?'

She looks up at Monroe and stands as Raven comes over. 'You heard the Lieutenant.' she grins at the firefighters as she throws her medkit into the backseat. Hooking her arms around their necks, she follows Bellamy's example, Raven and Monroe's hands on her back and thighs, helping her up and into the minivan.

She straightens up into a crouch in the backseat, wobbling, and reaching for the first thing within arm's length. Her fingers close around Bellamy's shoulder and he turns, his arm shooting out to grasp the underside of her arm, keeping her steady.

The smell of gasoline is almost overpowering in the cabin, making her eyes water so much that it doesn’t even occur to her that Bellamy hadn't shaken her off this time.

'Her leg's pinned.' Bellamy tells her quietly, letting her go as Clarke gets her feet on the floor, 'I gotta work on that so we can move her.'

''Kay.' she nods, eyes already on Mariana, 'Let me take a look at her.'

Bellamy shifts back and up onto the folded front passenger seat and Clarke moves into the tiny space between him and the driver. His heat seeps into her back as she leans over the teenager.

The outside world quiets, her own fears melt, even the smell of gasoline fades as Clarke looks over the silent, terrified girl.

'Mariana, my name's Clarke.' she says on a smile, eyes shifting over the gashes in her chest, shocking red staining the pretty lilac t-shirt, 'You're going to be okay, just breathe nice and easy for me, alright?'

'Okay.' Mariana whispers, blinking rapidly against gathering tears.

She places a comforting hand on the teen's shoulder as she assesses the wounds. The lacerations to her chest and shoulder aren't too deep and the head wound was superficial. As long as they got her out of here, Mariana should be okay.

Behind Clarke, Bellamy is calling for a short ram, his voice a vibration where his chest and side is pressed against her back.

'Clarke.'

She glances over her shoulder, sees the ram in his gloved hand and moves. It's an almost confusing tangle of legs and limbs as they switch places in the confined space but they manage it smoothly. She finds herself, a knee in the passenger seat, the other leg stretched out and pressed into the line of Bellamy's thigh as he goes to his back, reaching down to work the ram into place.

As the car thrums around them with the force of the ram pushing out the metal around Mariana's leg, Clarke locks her arm against the roof of the car, the other on the dashboard to keep herself from pitching forward on top of Bellamy. She keeps her eyes on Mariana, talking to her to keep her calm, monitoring her vitals as he works.

The grinding sound finally stops and Clarke leans over to the medkit, grabbing the C-collar.

'Got it.' Bellamy says, still on his back, his eyes coming up to meet hers as she straightens above him, 'We need to move fast.'

His voice gives nothing away, his face is calm but his dark eyes tell a different story. Then the faintest of shadows cross his face as she watches and she knows.

Something's wrong.

Shit.

'Okay, Mariana,' she calls, keeping her voice level, and leans forward, 'I'm going to put this C-collar on you so we can get you out of here, okay?'

As she speaks, Bellamy silently ab-curls into a sitting position and shifts off the seat, moving behind her, so that she can reach the girl. Maybe it's the danger she knows they're now in, maybe it's her heightened senses, but this time Clarke can't ignore Bellamy's proximity.

She can't ignore the hot, hard, feel of him pressed against her back, can't ignore the scent of him, the whisper of his breath against her nape where the neckline of her t-shirt was pulled down by the twist of her hips.

She can't ignore it so she pushes brutally right through it and her voice doesn't waver as she continues to talk to Mariana and her hands don't waver as they secure the C-collar around her neck.

He must be loving their forced proximity, a bitter voice murmurs in her head and Clarke drowns it out too because now's not the time and things weren't what they were a week ago.

She pulls herself off Bellamy, turning to face him as Monroe pushes in the back board through the back window. Together, they shift Mariana onto the board and Clarke gives the teen a final smile and quick stroke of her temple before Bellamy is signalling to Murphy and Monroe outside.

Mariana barely cleared the window when Bellamy surges over the seat, taking her arm in a steel grip.

'We need to get out of here.' he bites out, dark eyes snapping.

The reek of gasoline suddenly rises, turning her stomach. Urgency buzzing under her skin, Clarke goes for the window, following Mariana's feet.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, flames blossom from the air vents in the dashboard, heat erupting in the confined space. Every cell in Clarke's body freezes in a tangle of horror and terror as Bellamy spins on his haunches to look over his shoulder.

With a curse, he yanks her back, Clarke falling into the space between the front and back seats with a startled cry. Her back slams into the floor, a weight hitting her chest, just as the interior of the vehicle is filled with a muffled roar and a blistering heat wave.

The weight shifts and lifts slightly and she cracks open her eyes to see Bellamy's face, only inches above hers. Behind him, the ceiling has been obscured by a wall of fire, blown in through the air conditioning vents.

Time stops.

Above her, Bellamy is framed by gold fire streaked blood-red, and the sight of him is powerful and otherworldly and _right_.

In that moment, fear has no place in her heart because all Clarke can see is Bellamy, the tips of his hair gilded by the flames above, the fiery glow caught on the edge of his cheekbones, the amber glimmers in his dark gaze as they reflect the dancing flames.

 _This is who I am_ , a voice, grit and smoke, whispers, _see me in my true form_.

His face is harsh lines and curves as he looks back at her, eyes hard and hot. He looks fierce, wild and beautiful and she is suddenly aware of how tightly pressed they are together. She becomes aware of his weight on top of her, of his hips tilted deep into the cradle of her own, of his belly pressed against hers, of their legs intimately entwined.

Of his mouth right above hers.

She fights the urge to arch up, to catch his bottom lip between her teeth and pull it into her mouth. To taste him.

As if hearing her thoughts, Bellamy's eyes flick down to her lips, she feels the moment his body tenses against hers and her throat goes dry. The heat running through her body has nothing to do with the flames dancing on the ceiling.

She wants to move under him. She knows how to move under him - it doesn't matter how she knows, just that she does. She knows how to hook her leg over his hip and draw him deeper into her heat. She knows how to rake her nails down his back to make him groan against her throat. She knows how to part her lips under his so that she can take his kiss as her body takes his.

 _You know_ , the voice murmurs in her ear, _you know. Why do you deny it?_

Bellamy's eyes return to hers and her belly clenches.

The heat in them can't be just the reflection of the flames above them, right?

It can't be just the -

The cabin fills with cold, white plumes and the vicious strident hiss of fire extinguishers. The clouds swallow the fire and Clarke chokes on the taste, squeezing her eyes tightly closed.

Like an arrow let loose, time regains speed.

The outside world - yelling, the ache in her shoulder where she hit it on her way down, the acrid smell of smoke and singed upholstery - comes barrelling back.

Under the onslaught of sensations, Clarke doesn't realise Bellamy had lifted off her until his fingers grasp her arm, pulling her up. The gas stings her eyes and when hands wrap around her arms and tug, she obeys blindly.

Cold air slaps her face and the smell of wet asphalt clears the scent of smoke in her nose. Coughing and blinking away stinging tears, Clarke feels herself being lowered to the ground. Her hands hit the gravelly surface of a road and she tries to suck in a breath as Raven's voice fills her ears, low and soothing.

Her sight clears enough to see Bellamy diving out of the window of the minivan. Murphy and Monroe close ranks behind him, extinguishers in hand and another cloud of white rises from the car as they take no chance with another ignition.

When Raven releases her to return to her team, Clarke starts forward as Bellamy comes out of a controlled roll, several feet away.

He straightens to his full height and moves towards her, arm lifting, 'You okay?' he asks - demands almost - his features taut.

'I'm fine.' she nods at once, 'Thanks.'

He stops, breathing hard, his arm dropping as his eyes scan her face, her body, before rising to meet her gaze. Then, she watches as his gaze turns carefully shuttered, his face blank.

She rocks to a stop, suddenly unsure.

What is she going say?

Is she really going to ask him if he felt that in there? And felt what exactly?

Was she really going to ask if he was going to kiss her?

Was she really going to ask whether time slowed and stopped for him too?

Was she out of her mind?

She stares at Bellamy, his gloved hands fisted at his side and he's staring at her but she can't get a read on him and it frustrates her enough that the tears stinging her eyes aren't all from the gas and smoke she had been exposed to.

What if she had hallucinated what had happened?

It's possible, she realises with cold dread.

If she could weave in and out of consciousness, who's to say she's not hallucinating too?

Then she remembers another thing and it's jarring enough that it throws out every other thought.

He could have died protecting her.

Again.

Without thinking, Clarke moves forward.

And Bellamy takes a step back in response.

She freezes, reality slicing painfully through her confusion and frustration.

He doesn't do it angrily, doesn't do it with a sneer twisting his lips like times before. But the reminder that he doesn't want her touching him is still there and it still hurts.

Stupid, stupid, girl.

When are you going to learn?

'Just doing my job.' he says quietly, his eyes resigned.

Clarke pastes a smile on her face. 'Of course.'

She was a fool to ever think that anything had changed between them - ceasefire or not.

They stand there, looking at each other, the world continues to spin around them in a dull blur. The sky is a dirty grey stretching for miles in every direction as the firefighters become dark blurry shapes and even the bright red of the trucks in the distance are muted to a dusty rust red.

The only thing that remains the same in Clarke's sight is Bellamy.

Bellamy, who has just saved her life again. Who is standing in front of her, in his turnout gear, dark hair hanging into his eyes, sweat gleaming at his temples. Bellamy who is looking at her with so much wariness, jaw ticking.

Bellamy who is standing only a few feet away from her, who is close enough that she can smell the smoke on him but who might as well be an ocean away with the distance between them.

Then he closes his eyes, blows out a breath and steps back.

He gives her a curt nod, turns away and Clarke is left standing there staring at the scorch marks on the back of his jacket.

There are no more close calls, no more drama after that and by the time she and Monty load the victims into the ambo for transportation, Clarke has managed to get herself under control.

Dealing with people who have just survived a horror will do that to you - no matter how bad of a day you think you are having, the victims are having a worse one.

So Clarke pulled herself under control, thanks anyone up there, listening, that there had been no casualties, and doesn't even look in the rear-view mirror of the ambo when Bellamy calls out an order to his team to pack it up.

She thinks she's pulled it off as the ER staff of Sacred Heart take the gurneys from them and she and Monty trudge over to the reception desk to fill in their incident reports. Clarke loves being a paramedic and the paperwork is a understandable necessity but it's also a pain in the ass.

'Something's up with you.'

Clarke signs off and hands the clipboard to the ER assistant, before glancing at Monty.

Damn it.

She gives Monty a bump with her shoulder. 'I'm fine.'

Monty swings an arm around her, pulling her into him as they walk out of the ER.

'Bullshit.' he quips.

Clarke gasps in mock affront. 'Monty Green, such language is unbecoming of a gentleman such as yourself.'

'Clarke Griffin, if each time you've deflected was a pile of cow dung, you'd be neck deep in shit right now.'

She scrunches up her nose at the mental image. 'That is nasty.'

'Still deflecting.' Monty sings softly.

She's not.

Is she?

She huffs out a breath and grabs his wrist hanging off her shoulder, linking her fingers with his.

Monty has the most beautiful hands she has ever seen - she shoves away the sly voice asking if she had taken Bellamy's hands into account because shut up, not helping - on a man or woman. His fingers are long like a pianist's and she has seen them weave magic over wounds, cradle vials and deliver doses with steady competence, seen victims clutch his hand.

Drawing strength from him.

He lets her grind the bones in his fingers without a wince or a word.

'Bellamy saved my life again.'

'I heard.' Monty says readily and then after a close look at her, the corner of his lips tilt up, 'He's saved mine about - what, three, four times now? Well, Raven was involved once and Harper and Nate were there the last time. Murphy saved Monroe and ditto. Raven saved Bellamy and ditto. Jasper saved Raven and ditto - look,' he hip bumps her, 'we get off on saving each other. So, what's wrong?'

'Nothing.' she says on a desperate laugh, 'Just -'

The memory of Bellamy above her, body hard, eyes hot, framed by flames, looking like he had come off the pages of an ancient text about gods and monsters, flashes before her eyes.

Desire, awe and confusion slams into her.

_Vulcan._

No.

She shakes off the whisper and squeezes Monty's hand harder. 'Nothing.' she finishes.

Even to her, the excuse seems lame.

Monty hums in his throat as they clear the doors, stepping into the brisk Arkadian air. 'In all my years on the job,' her partner murmurs, 'I have never met a person who has a more adverse reaction to being saved.'

Clarke glares at him.

'At least,' he says, releasing her to round the bonnet of the ambo, Clarke letting him go reluctantly, 'that cleared up one thing for you.'

'What's that?'

He throws her a smile over his shoulder. 'Bellamy wouldn’t continue to risk his life if he hated you, Clarke.'

You didn't see the way he backed away from me after, she wants to say but Monty has unlocked the ambo so she gets in and keeps the words locked in her mouth.

They taste like ash.

She stares out the window as the city flies by, grey and dull.

Clarke closes her eyes against the dreary grey skyline of the city and leans forward to press her forehead against the glass. The vehicle jostles as a tire hits a pothole and at first she thinks the spike of dizziness is because her temple had bounced against the window.

By the time she realises it's not, it's too late.

Her eyes fly open to a world gone dark and -

_Her visit to Mount Etna is very different from her last._

_The forge is lit, for one, throwing heat into the air and painting the stone walls with deep red streaks.._

_Vulcan is not in the shadows, for another._

_She stands there for a moment, watching her husband work, not alerting him to her presence._

_He's bent over a glowing red staff, arm rising and falling as he hammers it into shape, sparks flying as metal beats down onto heated metal. He's bare-chested and sweating from the heat and physical exertion._

_She frowns._

_Does he have drinkable water in this volcano? Or does he drink from the stream in which he quenches his creations?_

_There's a hiss, steam billows and her attention returns to the man lifting the quenched blade out of the water trough._

_'How may I be of service, goddess?' He doesn't look at her, just moves to place the blade into the heated coals._

_'Do I need an excuse to see you?' she asks._

_He braces an arm above the fireplace, leans in to push the metal deeper into the fire, and doesn't answer. She watches the play of muscles in his back shifting with his movements, remembers how they feel under her fingers._

_'I was bored.' she admits quietly._

_He turns around at that. 'Bored?' he repeats, brow raised, 'The wonders of the Roman Pantheon do not offer any attraction?'_

_There's amusement in his eyes and she allows herself a wry smile in return._

_She shrugs a shoulder, turning to look at the weaponry decorating the walls of the cavern. 'I've never known much of the Pantheon. I was raised by the ocean, not the citadels.' she says absently, running her fingers across a dagger. 'Things are quite - rigid - here. And rigidity bores me.'_

_Silence only broken by the crackling of flames. Then -_

_'Goddess.'_

_She turns to the sound of a blade whistling through the air, catching the sword he threw her, by the hilt. Caught off guard, she looks down at the weapon._

_'What -' she stops, eyes the sword in his hand._

_She only has time to suck in a breath before Vulcan surges forward, faster than she thought possible._

_She has no hope of matching his brute strength so when his sword comes down, she shifts back quickly and sidesteps. The clanging rasp of metal of metal echoes in the air as she uses his own motion to force his blade completely down and out before she whirls away._

_Skidding to a stop a few paces away, Venus stares at him, the muscles of her arm still tingling with the aftershocks as her sword comes up again in defence._

_But he doesn't move towards her again. Instead, he runs an assessing eye down her form, lingering on her feet as she watches him warily._

_'Still bored?' he murmurs, eyes finally rising to meet hers._

_It's the amusement and approval in his face that makes Venus relax her stance. '_

_Not many would allay their wife's boredom with an attack.' she answers tartly._

_The corners of Vulcan's eyes crinkle. 'Not many wives are the Goddess of Victory.'_

_That has her chin lifting as warmth sparks in her belly - not many remember that aspect of her persona and it's a pleasant, if surprised, feeling that he does._

_Vulcan shifts and he lifts a brow when her sword swings up into position. 'So wary of a mere, lame blacksmith?'_

_'Wary?' she snorts, 'Was it not you that battled Xanthus?' she moves back slowly and as her feet shift through hard packed sand, she recites,_

'The heavens lay witness as they clashed and warred,  
And below, the mortals watched in fearful wonder,  
The rage of fiery Vulcan lit the waters of the Scamander,  
And dried the river god's abode.'

_Venus shakes her head, drily amused, 'You burned a river to nothing.' she tilts her head at the weapons lining the walls, 'You create weapons of such acute perfection, you cannot expect me to believe that you are not skilled in their use. Of course I am wary.'_

_Vulcan watches her intently, an unfamiliar emotion drawing his brows down and softening the line of his mouth._

_'That is quite an observation.' he finally says._

_Her spine snaps straight. 'Do not patronise me.'_

_'I am not foolish enough to make that mistake. I meant no offense.' He meets her gaze steadily and there is nothing on his face that belies his words._

_Her shoulders loosen, a wave of weariness washing over her._

_She has been regulated to nothing more than the embodiment of sexual appetite for so long that she did not hear the truth in his voice. Perhaps, she should have been more kind, less inclined to strike, to prove herself as more than what she is portrayed to a man who thought to amuse her by engaging in a sparring match._

_And perhaps, Venus thinks slowly as she takes him in standing in front of her, Vulcan knows all too well what it is to have others disregard your self for what they believe you are._

_They have been more well matched than anyone had thought._

_She inclines her head. 'And I apologise for assuming.'_

_He acknowledges her words with a nod and his eyes drop to the sword she is holding. 'Are you still needing amusement then?'_

_She looks down at the gleaming leaf shaped bronze blade, leather bound hilt - she twists her wrist, spinning it - on point balance. It's simply but perfectly made._

_Venus looks back at him, smiles, and this time, it is she who leaps forward._

_He parries her thrust easily. She realises her mistake too late when he uses their locked blades to push her back, her curse stinging the air as her sandaled feet slide against the hard-packed earth. Her back hits the wall, knocking her breath out of her and she glimpses his suppressed smile before she brings her forehead crashing into his._

_Vulcan staggers back, mostly in shock, she thinks at the look on his face, and she laughs past the ache in her skull._

_'Victory has no rules.' she reminds him impishly._

_He blinks at her. Then a grin breaks across his face and her belly tightens and her heart stutters at the sight because Vulcan is beautiful when he smiles. His low laugh sounds like the warning rumble before an earthquake, breaking her from her daze just as he surges towards her._

_The cavern rings with the sound of sword on sword and she loses track of time as she gives herself up to the call of battle._

_He's bigger, stronger but she's faster on her feet and she uses it to her advantage. He is a formidable opponent and she holds nothing back. Neither does Vulcan. Her sword arm begins to burn, her dress sticking to her sweat-slick thighs as she whirls, dodges his blows, as she thrusts and parries. Her heartbeat rises with her blood, the rush surging through her body, turning her muscles warm and limber._

_And when she begins to laugh, the white flash of his grin makes another appearance and never falls again._

_Then his eyes turn triumphant, and too late, she realises that he had been backing her into a corner the entire time. Trapped, she tries to dart past him and is driven back swiftly, brutally, until once again, her back hits the wall. He fills her vision as he steps into her, inches away, his sword at his side. His chest is moving with his breaths, and while they do not come harshly, they are definitely deep. She would have smirked at the thought had she not been distracted by the drop of sweat sliding down his neck to his collarbone. The tremor that shivers through her is not fear and only partially adrenaline._

_'Do you concede?'_

_His voice is rough and her eyes snap to his._

_Light meets dark._

_The hand she had kept pressed against her back whips out, a blade winking once in the dim light._

_'Do you?' she murmurs._

_Vulcan stills._

_Then his gaze shoots down to see the dagger point pricking his skin, perfectly positioned to slide between the blades of his ribs. He stares at it and Venus has a moment to bite down a smile before he's laughing, stepping back._

_'Well played, goddess.' he concedes._

_She grins at him but misses the warmth of his body._

_They stand there in the red-tinted glow, surrounded by the heat of his forge and the glimmer of his creations, sweat beading on their skin, hearts still pounding in their chests. Venus looks at her husband as he smiles at her, and she's thrown by the pride and softness in his smile._

_Then she realises the tightness in her chest for what it was - affection._

_She was prepared to share her body and loyalty with this man._

_But she not expected to share her heart._

_'Main to 6, man in distress, 3 Elysian Avenue. What is your ETA?'_

Clarke jerks back to reality at the crackling hiss of the radio, loud in the ambo cabin.

She leaps for the radio, ignoring Monty's startled glance, and opens the line, 'Main, this is 6. On our way, we're -' _where the hell were they?_ She scans the buildings rushing past until she finds a familiar landmark, '- ten minutes out. Over.'

'Copy that, 6.'

As Monty flips the lights and engages the siren, Clarke hooks the radio back to the dash and leans back in the seat, ignoring her partner's look.

'I thought you were sleeping.' Monty murmurs as he swerves around the vehicle in front of them, expertly manuvoering his way through downtown Arkadia. 'Heard you talking.'

Her cheeks turn hot at her partner's unspoken question but Clarke brushes it off, lifting a shoulder.

'Dreams.' she says quietly, staring out the window.

'Good dreams?' Monty's voice is softly teasing as if he could read the tension in her shoulders and was trying to relieve it.

The darkness of her dreamscape had more light than the daylight of her reality and that was a punch to the mouth.

'No.' she replies to Monty's question, eyes dim, 'It was a nightmare.'

****

Wednesday's child is full of woe.

It's a strange saying and one that Clarke has heard in the past only to grin because it reminded her of the glorious and morbid Wednesday Adams.

But perhaps she should have listened because it would be a Wednesday that would bring with it the spectre of human mortality and a whip that cracked the ice she had so determinedly laid around her heart, allowing the pain of life to seep in between the fractures.

It has been almost a full month since Bellamy had gotten them both out of that vehicle, since he reminded her of the true nature of their relationship with that step away from her. Since he proved that she had been right about being wary of the changing things between them.

The day had started innocuously enough - a couple of calls for her and Monty, a DIY roof re-slating gone wrong that they had accompanied the firefighters to. And in between calls, she stayed out of Bellamy's way at the firehouse.

She had certainly got his unsaid message by now - even if the surface changes, what lies beneath doesn't.

There's no more full out spits between them but there's no more of the bantering that she was just starting to get used to either.

Just politeness.

That was them now - polite.

'Holy shit.'

Jolted out her thoughts, Clarke stares up at the building as they drive up, silently agreeing with Monty's mutter. Smoke, thick and black rises high into the air and the heat, even in the ambo, is unbelievable. Smoke, sharp and acrid, is heavy in the air.

The unfamiliar firefighters of Company 12 are scattered and amongst them, 82's own Truck and Squad are already on scene, pulling victims as they run out of the building and leading them to safety.

She sees Bellamy in the rush - face drawn, mouth tight, arm held protectively over a victim's head as he guides her away from the blaze.

Clarke pushes the thoughts of her mind as Monty puts the ambo into park, turning to survey the scene.

Company 12 has firefighters up on aerial, two working crowd control, their paramedics have already set up triage, and Kane is talking to their Chief, a huge man with a pepper and salt beard.

'Gustus.' Monty tells her as they swing out of the ambo and round the back of the vehicle, 'He must have called Main for back-up.'

'I can see why.' Clarke mutters, pulling open the back doors to grab gear, 'This is one hell of a rager.'

Behind them sound of Kane's voice blurs into the roar of the fire.

Monty lifts a hand when Danae, one half of the Company 12's paramedic team, waves at them in relief.

Clarke and Monty open up the back properly and their first victims, a man and a girl are led their way by Sterling. She takes the girl, sixteen year old Amanda, and Clarke smiles at her as she adjusts the oxygen mask over her nose. Aside from slight smoke inhalation, she's thankfully okay.

Clarke keeps her head down, concentrating on the victims and keeping her ears peeled in case Monty needed assistance.

If her heart pinches a little when Kane starts directing the Truck and Squad teams into hell, she ignores it.

She works. Fast, clean, practiced. Nothing life-threatening, mostly shock and the victims are led to rest in the extra ambo that had arrived. The worst case so far is a first degree burn to a woman's arm she had just finished treating.

'Clarke!' Danae is waving at her while directing a firefighter her way, 'Can you take a look at our Lieutenant's hand?'

She lifts an arm in affirmation as the Lieutenant jogs over, taking off her helmet to reveal dark hair, pulled back in a braid. The brunette tugs off the heavy gloves by biting down on the loose tip of a finger and Clarke takes her hand in hers, studying the angry red welts marring the pale skin on the firefighter's palm.

'Your glove took the most of it,' she reassures, reaching for ointment and bandages, 'No lasting damage, Lieutenant.'

'Lexa.'

Clarke looks up into doe-eyes the colour of a still winter lake. 'Pardon?'

The firefighter looks back at her and her eyes are strangely familiar. 'You can call me Lexa.'

She's pretty, despite the soot streaking her face and the sweat-drenched strands of mink-brown hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. Now that Clarke is seeing her up close, she realises just how young the Lieutenant is. She couldn't have been any older than Bellamy. There is a sadness, an almost haunted look in her blue eyes that make her seem older than first glance, though. Something about that look, the ghosts in her eyes, strikes a chord with Clarke, and it draws her to the woman as much as it repels her.

Clarke settles for a nod as she finishes treating Lexa's hand and the Lieutenant returns to her team with a murmured thanks.

She watches the brunette go and - again, there's something familiar about her.

Then Kane barks an order into the radio and the air turns static.

Clarke twists around.

Some of their firefighters are already back, she notices with a start before Monty grabs her arm and together they haul med-kits over their backs. They run to where Kane is standing as Murphy and Monroe burst from the front door, racing to join the others.

Clarke stares at the figures, looking, looking, looking - Murphy, Monroe, Miller, Jasper, Harper, Sterling, where's -

A scuffle occurs amongst the firefighters, muffled yelling and the group condenses onto itself as Clarke's chest goes tight and cold.

'Shit.' Monty whispers, 'Clarke -'

An explosion shakes the ground.

She ducks automatically and comes out of her crouch, spinning up and around just in time to see the roof caving in one side.

'Blake!' Kane barks into his radio, 'Reyes!

Her stomach drops and nausea hits.

Static is the only thing coming from Kane's radio.

'Bellamy, come in!' the Chief's voice seems to come from a distance, 'Raven!'

Clarke stares up at the building, flames licking up the sides, heart rising in her ears.

The firefighters around the scene seem frozen, every eye on the raging inferno.

Where are they?

Then the doors burst open, smoke billowing, and Raven's slender form jogs out and down the steps, slightly favouring her right leg, leading out a man - a victim. She has a hand on his neck, keeping his head down. The fist around Clarke's throat loosens its grip - but doesn't let go completely.

The victim's face is obscured by a firefighter's oxygen mask. Seeing it and Raven's mask is still fixed firmly to her face gives Clarke hope and she looks beyond the two, waiting for another form to emerge from the smoke.

Nothing.

A movement in her peripheral catches Clarke's attention. She turns her attention up to the building as something flops out of window. Narrowing her eyes at it, she focuses through the grey haze that permeates the air.

Ice gathers in the pit of her stomach. 'Chief?' she calls out, identifying the pale limb, 'That's an arm, we have a civilian still inside!'

Kane curses, 'The building's going -'

'Where's Bellamy?' Raven suddenly demands, 'He was right behind me.'

Clarke is still processing Raven's words when Miller's roar fills the air.

'Raven, no!'

Clarke spins around to see Raven tearing up the sidewalk towards the smoke-filled door. She doesn't make it, Jasper catching her around the waist, swinging her back around as she struggles, lashing out at him. Then Miller and Murphy are there, pulling the distraught firefighter back.

Bellamy is still inside.

Something inside her snaps and she takes a step forward before catching herself, blood rushing in her ears, her heart roaring louder than the inferno.

What was she going to do? Run in after Bellamy? And then what? She's not trained for this. She'll become just another victim he'll have to save.

But - even logic doesn’t make sense when Bellamy's in there, treading closer to death than life.

The pressure in her chest builds to excruciating heights.

 _My place is at his side, in peace and in war_ , a voice says, strong in its conviction and sounding disconcertingly like her own but not.

Venus.

 _Get the fuck out of my head_ , she snarls silently, hands coming up to fist in her hair, _you're not real._ This _is real. This moment, this fire, this danger, every second that passes with Bellamy still in there in skin-melting heat and poisonous smoke,_ that _is real._

Around them, the building continues to burn and in her chest, Clarke's heart begins to ice over. Monty's hand wraps around her cold one but she doesn't move. She just stands there and stares as ash rains down on them and her world continues to darken.

The structure groans and everything, everyone, stills and Monty's hand spasms against hers.

Terror coats her tongue, sour and bitter.

 _I will always come for you_ , a different voice murmurs, carried on the ash-scented wind, its vibration the warning rumble of a volcano.

And Clarke no longer cares that it was just a hallucination because at the back of her throat, a sweetness blooms unexpectedly.

Hope.

Tremulous and faint but it's there.

Bellamy will make it.

She doesn't know she says the words out loud until Miller's head turns to her, his gaze hard and desperate.

'He will.' Raven says, chest heaving, finally calming. When Clarke looks at her, there's despairing guilt in the firefighter's eyes. 'If anyone can make it out of hell,' Raven says, holding Clarke's eyes, 'it's Bellamy.'

Monty's fingers squeeze again and she glances up at him. He nods at her, resolute.

A silent agreement passes between the four of them and the die is cast.

'Let's make his trip a little easier.' Miller says. He glances at Kane who had been watching them and when the Chief nods, the Lieutenant turns back to his team, face set, 'McIntrye, Jordan, you're on aerial.' he instructs, 'Douse this fucker. Sterling, you're with me.' He jerks his chin at Raven in silent query.

As Raven calls out orders for Squad, Clarke and Monty drop their medkits to return to the ambo, yanking out backboard and gurney, portable oxygen masks and tanks, shock blankets, IV drips.

 _Bellamy will make it_ , she tells herself as Monty hands her fresh gloves, as the firefighters of 82, joined by their Company 12 cohorts, fan out around the burning building.

Bellamy will make it because he's one hell of a firefighter. He'll make it because his loss will break his sister and he would never willingly allow that to happen. Because it will break his house, his family and he could never hurt them.

Because his story cannot possibly end here.

 _Bellamy will make it because - because,_ Clarke drops her hands, one glove fisted in the other hand, closes her eyes, feels something inside her soul click into place like a puzzle piece, _my place is at his side and his is at mine, and if I can't go to him then he will come to me_.

The thought is ludicrous and audacious in light of where it stems from, in light of where their relationship is.

But it also feels right.

Feels real.

A resounding crack rends the air and her eyes fly open as the house vibrates hard enough that she feels it in her feet.

They only have seconds.

 _You promised_ , she prays as the ground turns into quicksand under her frozen feet, _you promised_.

Two figures fly out of a ground floor window.

The larger one rolls to his feet, yanks up the other into a fireman's hold, and begins sprinting towards them.

Her breath explodes from her in choked exhale.

What was left of the roof collapses inwards and the aftermath sends ash and glowing particles over them in a rippling wave of sound and heat.

But Bellamy is alive.

Bellamy made it out.

The dust and smoke is still swirling in the air when shouts sound and shadowed figures break out of the haze - Miller and Raven appear first, carrying the victim between them.

Monty darts forward. 'I got this.'

Swallowing down the giddying relief, the echo of pain and terror, Clarke hefts the medkit onto her shoulder.

But then Bellamy emerges from the smoke, mask under his arm, steam rising off him, features gleaming with sweat, face streaked black and her heart stops.

Bellamy's footsteps slow when his eyes find her then stop as his gaze moves over her face.

She knows her relationship with him is complicated, that Bellamy is complicated, that her dreams and his treatment of her made everything else even more complicated but - but despite herself, despite everything, she cares about him.

She can't pretend she doesn't care.

She can't lie to herself in this moment.

This time, this once, she won't call it anything else than what it is.

She feels for Bellamy Blake, deep and hard, strong and real.

It doesn't matter how her feelings started or how they grew because they're there, smouldering in her belly, warming a chest that was once frozen in terror. She might not know exactly what it is she feels for him, she might not trust what she feels and where it originated but she does feel for him and it's nothing polite.

Bellamy's eyes, still sharp with adrenaline, soften, his head tilts, studying her as he walks towards her. To her shock, the tips of his mouth curl up in a heart-stopping smile.

And hell if the feelings that erupt in her chest at that smile don't terrify her.

Clearing her throat, Clarke ducks her head, scolding herself as she notices that he had a hand pressed against his opposite upper arm.

She reaches for his arm.

Her ungloved fingers brush against the back of his bare hand, lightning crackling up her arm.

Bellamy's eyes glaze over.

He stumbles .

She surges forward, throwing a shoulder under his arm, his weight hits her hard. 'Bellamy!'

As if reacting to her voice, Bellamy catches himself before he goes to his knees. His body jerks against hers, shudders once.

'Fuck.' he bites out and then he's wrenching himself away, bending over at the waist, alternating between coughing and retching.

What the hell is this?

Delayed reaction?

That's not possible.

The paramedic in her takes over and she's pushing aside her questions and tugging him up gently. 'Come on.' she says, laying a hand on his back, rubbing.

'I'm fine.' he coughs, straightening to place his palms on his knees, sucking in air.

His face is shiny with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead and his features are tight with pain.

'No, you're not,' she says crisply, 'You need oxygen and I need to take a look at you.'

'Clarke -', the rest of his words are lost in a coughing fit.

'Come on.' she repeats, pushing him gently towards the free gurney.

Once he's sitting down, she slips a mask over his nose quickly and she leans around Bellamy to adjust the level on the tank.

Not noticing the way his body tightens, she pushes back the jacket over his unharmed shoulder and swings it slowly forward to get it off. 'Let me see that arm.'

Bellamy gives a low groan as the material pulls at his wound but he doesn't move and lets her work. The jacket drops to pool around his hips on the gurney and she leans in closer to inspect his bicep.

The wound, under the curled, blackened edges of his thermal's fabric, looks like a second degree burn. But burns are tricky and it can become much worse if they don't treat it now.

Like hell he was fine.

Biting back the urge to scold him, Clarke straightens, yanking the medkit, open on the gurney next to Bellamy, closer to her.

'I'm giving you something for the pain first.' she grabs vial and syringe and a glance at him shows Bellamy staring straight ahead, the edges of his mouth pale, the corners of his eyes pinched. 'And then we're going to have to cut that material away from your burn so I can treat it.'

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

She runs a gloved thumb over a vein running inside his arm -

Bellamy shudders. Then - 'Wait.'

'Wha -'

'Monty.' he bites out, head dropping, shoulders trembling, 'I want Monty to treat me.'

Clarke feels the hit in her chest.

He rather deal with excruciating pain than let her touch him? He's _shaking_ , for fuck's sake.

She opens her mouth, ice coating her words. 'Let go of your damn aversion of m -'

'Clarke.' Bellamy whispers and his head comes up, gaze blurry and almost dazed,. 'Don't - you can't touch -.' his head drops again, 'Not right now. Please.'

Her hand falls to her side, her stomach twisting.

Fine.

'Makes no difference to me.' she says coolly. Without another look at him, she turns away, 'Monty, swap with me, yeah?'

Monty's brows shoot up but he nods and two seconds later, Clarke gives Bellamy what he wanted.

This time the hurt comes as no surprise.

She's closing the back doors to the ambo, eyes averted from the sight of Bellamy inside with the victim, when a gloved hand catches a door and helps her push it closed.

'I got it.' Clarke starts to snap, turns and sees that the hand belongs to Lexa. 'Thanks.' she says instead, offering the Lieutenant a smile in apology for the sharpness in her tone.

Lexa returns the smile, nodding once. 'I thought you were just a responder.' the brunette murmurs as Clarke engages the catch on the door. 'I didn't know you were a Delinquent.'

Clarke signals Monty over before Lexa's words penetrate and she's shooting her a puzzled glance. 'Delinquent?'

'You're a member of the Eighty Second Company, right?' Lexa asks and when Clarke nods, 'House 82 - also known as 'The Delinquents.''

'Uh -'

But before she could say anything further, Monty's there and Lexa steps back, a smile on her face as she backs away. Clarke doesn't have a choice but to give her a wave before jogging over to the passenger side, clambering in and ignoring the presence of the man in the back of the ambo that seeps into the front cabin even through a partition of metal.

At the hospital, she and Monty hand over victim (heavily sedated, treated for second degree burns to his back) and Bellamy was lead away so that his arm could be properly dressed.

They're filling out their report and, for Clarke, trying to ignore, and failing, the exasperated voices of nurses behind a closed curtain in one corner of the ER.

A nurse yanks back the fabric and stalks out, scowling.

Not that she's counting, but that's the third one to do so.

Despite herself, Clarke can't keep silent anymore.

'Aren't you going to do something?' she finally mutters out of the corner of her mouth.

Monty glances up from the request he's filing to replace the medication they had used on call today. 'About what?'

She shoots him a look and jerks her head pointedly at the drawn curtain where Bellamy's voice rose in an irritated growl.

'And what do you think I can do about it?' Monty asks, brow rising.

'He's refusing treatment.'

'No,' Monty contradicts smoothly, 'he's refusing an examination. And since you,' he leans over, taps a pen against the report she's writing out, 'are stating that he was cleared on-scene for smoke inhalation, he's well within his rights to refuse. You know this.'

Yes, she knows.

She also knows that Bellamy had been coughing like hell, yet Monty's examination showed that it wasn't smoke in his lungs. No telltale black streaks around his mouth or under his nose. Just coughing.

But she knows what she saw.

'It doesn't hurt to be thorough.' she defends.

'I agree.'

'You know the long-term dangers for firefighters.'

'I do.' Monty agrees readily.

'Then you should talk to him.' she pushes.

'Why don't you?'

'Did you miss the part where he asked for you earlier? He doesn't even want me to treat him,' Clarke says stiffly, 'what makes you think he'll listen to anything I say?'

'Then maybe _you_ should listen to _him_.' Monty shoots back.

'Are you telling me to back off?' she narrows her eyes, heat rushing up her neck.

To her surprise, Monty laughs, 'No, Clarke, that's not what I'm saying.' he takes a step towards her, eyes intent, 'I know things haven't been exactly good between you guys but if you just _listen and pay attention_ , you'll learn a few things about Bellamy.'

Hasn't she been paying attention?

More attention than what's good for her?

She huffs out a frustrated breath, shakes her head, and turns back down to her report. 'I give up.'

Another nurse emerges from the stall, muttering under her breath.

God, he's so stubborn.

Clarke slams down her pen.

'Guess you haven't given up then?' Monty calls from behind her as she strides away.

She should.

Bellamy doesn't need her.

So why can't she give up on him?

Before she knows it, Clarke's yanking back the curtain the nurses had come from.

Bellamy's sitting on the bed, shirtless, and his head jerks up at her abrupt entrance, eyebrows shooting up. There's a new white bandage wrapped around his bicep and he has an oxygen mask dangling from the fingertips of the other hand.

'Sudden cardiac arrest.' she snaps.

Confusion shifts across his features. 'What?'

Clarke ignores the bared expanse of his chest, the wide shoulders, those fucking arms. It's the first time she's ever seen him shirtless while awake and it's unfair how much better the real thing is compared to dreams - and is that the edge of a tattoo on his ribs?

Does Bellamy have a tattoo on his back?

Concentrate, Griffin, she snarls at herself.

'The most common cause of on-duty fatalities for firefighters.' she says tightly, pulling herself together, 'Sudden cardiac arrest. Almost always -'

Bellamy drops his head, groans. 'Jesus, Clarke.'

' - resulting in death.'

He lifts his head, smirks, brow arching and bracing his arms against the edge of the bed, leans forward. 'I didn't die.' When he rocks forward on his hands, the motion tightens his shoulders, turning their outline hard, taut, and -

Can he please put on a bloody shirt, for crying out loud?

'Obviously.' Clarke mutters. She folds her arms across her chest, cocks a hip, 'You're EMT trained as well, aren't you?'

'Yeah, why?' he asks, straightening, eyes turning wary as they flick over her stance, 'You've had enough and gonna tell me to treat myself?'

'Nope. I just want to make sure you can keep up with what I'm going to say next.'

'Oh, trust me, I can keep up with you in any situation.'

Any situation?

She ignores the flush crawling up her neck and throws out, 'Carbon monoxide and hydrogen cyanide, the amount that you've just been exposed to is crazy.'

'Obviously.' Bellamy mimics her earlier sarcastic tone, holding up the mask and looking around the room pointedly.

She ignores that too. 'Chronic exposure to particulate matter and smoke is linked with -'

'With atherosclerosis.' the corner of his scarred lip tips up like a challenge, 'I know.'

'Noise exposures contributes to hypertension and possibly ischemic heart disease.' she pushes, undeterred, 'Other factors associated with firefighting also increase the risk of cardiovascular problems and we're talking things you undergo everyday on the job, like -'

'Stress, heat stress and heavy physical exertion?' Bellamy arches a brow, holding her eyes. 'I know.'

'Then you also know,' she throws back, 'that it doesn't matter that you're built like a god and healthy as a horse, Bellamy, you're still at risk.'

Built like a god?

Cringing, she expects Bellamy to smirk, but all he looks is surprised.

Those stupid dreams and the lack of sleep are really getting to her.

There's a niggling question at the back of her mind, set off by his attitude and it scratches at the walls of her cranium.

Bellamy doesn't seem to have an aversion to any type of food - put it in front of him and he'll eat it. She's seen him dig into burgers, fries, bacon, has seen him swipe corn chips from Jasper's stash. But she has also knows that they stock plain yogurt, muesli and bran because of him. He doesn't touch soda if given a choice. She knows that he inhales coffee but he'll only take his first cup with honey and milk and then switches to black and unsweetened. He doesn't shy away from alcohol but he doesn't drink nearly as much as the rest of them do.

He runs almost every morning on their days off because she's seen him, from the balcony, returning. He works out everyday at the station - boxing, sit-ups, chin-ups, running drills - and the sessions always brutal. Not exactly punishing but - maybe a lot of it is stress relief but the closest Clarke could ever come to describing it whenever she sees his sessions is that he seems to be honing his body.

And Bellamy might have flaws but vanity isn't one of them.

So, why does a man who builds his body into what Bellamy's is, have such disregard for his life?

Oh god, she's reading into everything way too much.

Clarke presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. If he doesn't care about himself, she needs to try a different approach.

'Look,' she huffs a out breath tiredly, 'if you drop,' she lowers her arms to meet his now amused eyes, 'you think you'll be the only one suffering from your collapse?'

All traces of humour vanish and his face hardens. 'If you're trying to imply that I would ever knowingly risk my team or the victims I'm going in for, you don't know the first fucking thing about me.'

No, that's not what she meant but as his words sink into her brain - _listen and pay attention_ \- she understands.

Understands with a painful clarity because the lightbulb didn't just flick on, it exploded in her head.

Thoughts race through her mind - his careless attitude towards his health contrasting with the time he spent honing bone and muscle, his protectiveness towards his house - including her -, his seemingly reckless bravery.

It makes sense now.

Bellamy's treating his body like a tool - like it's just another part of firefighting equipment that needs to be cared for and polished and cleaned because if it isn't in top condition, it won't be able to do its job properly in the field.

It's not about _his_ benefit - it never was.

So his body doesn't truly belong to him?

No, it doesn't. Because Bellamy has pledged his body to his family, his house, to the victims he saves everyday.

Her mind reels - how is that he could look at himself, at his own flesh and blood, and see a means to an end?

How did this happen?

What could have happened that moulded this frame of mind about himself?

He's not expendable.

But he doesn't see that.

Goddamn it, it makes her want to cry.

But she works past it because she got what she needed - you don't get through to Bellamy Blake by telling him it's for his benefit.

'I'm telling you that I was there when you ran back into that building.' Clarke says, fighting to keep her voice steady, 'I am trying to tell you that your friends wanted to follow you in. That if they could, they would have and burned in there with you because that is how much they care.' she steps forward, tilts her head back so she can hold his gaze, 'I am trying to tell you, Bellamy, that it was a different type of hell waiting for you to make it back out and if -', _If I had lost you_. She stops herself in time.

She lowers her eyes, unable to hold his gaze anymore, unnerved by the way his eyes narrowed as she spoke.

'Careful, princess.' Bellamy says softly, a warning in his voice, 'I might start thinking you care.'

Was that - was that _hurt_ she saw flash across his face?

Had she hurt him earlier when she turned away from him, feigning apathy?

No - that's not possible.

But then Bellamy's words sink in and her shoulders drop.

God, she's exhausted with keeping this façade up.

'I can't force you to get checked out.' she says roughly, rubbing her gritty eyes, 'I'm asking you to. If you won't do it for yourself, then I'm asking for -' Me. '- everyone whose hearts need you in this world. And there are a lot of us. So. Please.'

She doesn't look at him when she turns away, leaving him alone in that hospital room where the air still rang with her quiet words.

Clarke didn't realise what she had done, that she had included herself in her words and gave herself away.

But Bellamy, eyes on the blonde's retreating back, the tip of that long tawny-gold braid swaying distractingly above her ass, noticed.

Not privy to his thoughts, Clarke strides away, back to the counter, where she stabs the pen into the paper, signing off on the report.

The words under her fingers blur, edges of her sight going dark.

So caught up in her own head, Clarke doesn't realise what is happening until it's too late and the vision hits without warning.

_'So the rumours are true.'_

_Vulcan's head turns to glance at her before lowering again to his task. He does not reply. Venus swallows the rage rising and moves forward before she sees the jagged edge of his wound and stops._

_'You are not invincible.' she says tightly, unable to tear her eyes away from the deep gash above his ribs, 'In the Parthenon, even gods bleed.'_

_'You do not need to lecture me.' Vulcan says quietly._

_But in turning away from her, Venus sees the blooming bruises across his other shoulder and the rage spills over. 'What were you thinking?'_

_Vulcan snaps around. 'You are my wife.' his eyes flash dangerously. 'Not my keeper.'_

_'Then forgive me if I thought that as your wife, I would have been appraised of your decisions.' she throws back, 'You accepted a challenge from Mars, you fought without a second -'_

_'Gods bleed - even the God of War.' Vulcan reminds her in a snarl, 'What would you had me do, Venus?' his arm snaps out, sending the wet cloth flying from him, 'Acquiesce to the duel and shame us both?'_

_'Tell me so I could have been there!'_

_Her voice bounces off the walls of their chambers and Vulcan stills._

_Slowly, he turns to face her, brows drawing down, anger bleeding from his face. 'That is what you are upset about?'_

_What did he think?_

_'Mars challenged you because of our marriage.' Venus says, voice harsh, ' I expected that - just as I expected your victory.' she stalks to the other side of the room and so does not see the surprise that crosses his face. She sweeps up the discarded cloth where it fell, 'But I also expected that you would at least tell me of the duel before the fact.' she throws the cloth viciously into the basin of water on the table, liquid splashing up the sides, 'I would have not stopped you. But I should have been there. At your back, and as your second. That was our agreement.'_

_'You would have fought at my side?'_

_His voice had changed to soft and confused, but it does not pierce the thick veil of anger and worry in her mind._

_Vulcan should not been alone._

_'Of course I would have.' she snaps, 'Did you think otherwise?'_

_She spins on her heel, too on edge to remain still. Then her breath catches when Vulcan's hand wraps around her bicep, pulling her into him and his mouth comes down on hers._

_Without hesitation, she kisses him back, hard and forceful, tasting blood and sweat. Her gut twists and she fists a hand in his hair, holding him to her._

_She knows what it would have been like - Vulcan alone, ringed by jeering spectators and facing down a god who slept on sheets made from the skins of mortals. Vulcan was an enigma amongst them - a god raised by a daughter of the ocean, thrown from the Parthenon by Juno when he was but a babe. Yet he survived. And when he was forced to return, grown and sporting the evidence of his fall from the mountain on his leg and hip, his open defiance of Jupiter and Juno was a thing of legend._

_They feared his strength of heart, of mind, of body, and those who fear that which they do not understand also hate it. And with hate came derision, came scorn, came the blackest parts of a soul. They twisted the stories about him, called him names and turned their noses up at him._

_Blind. Blind. Blind._

_She tears her mouth away. 'You should have not been alone.'_

_Vulcan, dark eyes glinting, leans in to brush a thumb under her eyes._

_Was she crying?_

_'Forgive me, goddess.' Vulcan says quietly, the turmoil in him finally abating, 'As your husband, I should have told you.'_

_She closes her eyes, wraps her arms around his waist and leans into his solid body. She hears the beat of his heart under her ear and presses in closer to him, memorising that sound._

_'You are not alone.' she reminds him softly._

_His arms tighten around her._

_'No.' he whispers in agreement, 'Not anymore.'_

'Honey, you done?'

Clarke lifts blurry eyes, the nurse on the other side of the counter coming slowly into focus.

'Yeah.' she says, ducking her head, clutching the counter as the world tilts under her feet. When she feels like she has a handle on it, she lifts her eyes, smiling stiltedly. 'Yeah.' she repeats, pushing her report towards the nurse.

The nurse nods and takes it, disappearing behind the desk.

Clarke sucks in a deep breath.

Get it together.

_You're fine - you just have to get it together._

So she does but as she turns away from the counter towards the ER doors, she glimpses Bellamy through a gap in the curtains drawn around him.

A nurse is drawing blood from him.

He's agreeing to the tests.

Her heart clenches and she hurries away before he can catch her staring.

But her mind is still full of him, still full of the realisation of how he perceives himself, and god help her, still full of Vulcan believing himself alone.

If this is what Monty meant by 'learning', Clarke thinks as she walks away, then, yeah, she's learning alright.

But will her heart survive the lesson?

****

'You're so lucky you don't have to go tonight.' Clarke mutters at Raven in the mirror.

Behind her, the firefighter is reclining across Clarke's bed, chomping on sea-salt chips.

She grins at Clarke, wriggling her toes. 'You'll be fine without me.'

Clarke scrunches her nose, 'These things are ridiculous.' she hurriedly pins an errant curl back into her side chignon, 'It's just a bunch of old men congratulating each other on one-upping the next while their wives preen about bearing the next social climber. And it'll be the same at the next cocktail party, and the next, and the next. Pretentious, soul-sucking privileged bullshit. It's ridiculous and I'm not - .' she stops as her words sink in and her cheeks flame.

'Remembering that you are one of the privileged?' Raven asks softly, correctly guessing her thoughts.

'Yeah.' she says quietly, darting a look at her flatmate in the mirror. 'Shit. Sorry.'

Clarke's not blind - she's as Aryan-featured as they come, there's a hospital wing named after her grandfather, a trust account in her name and when she was six, her parents sold off their beach house because they preferred to travel during the summer. She walks through life in a way not many do, have had doors open to her due to the mere circumstances of her birth, had been treated better because of conditioned thinking.

Doesn't mean she hasn't had her own difficulties or her own pain - but it's not about that. It's about the _added_ difficulties and pain others have had to and still have to face. She was spared that because of what she was.

It's something she first learned several years ago when she treated a woman who had been injured during a protest. And as she listened, as she began to research, as she continued to condition herself to unlearn things, continued to adjust her way of thinking, she realised that this was a continuous learning curve and settled in for the long haul.

But she fails sometimes and her failures are humbling experiences that become lessons learnt.

'Cheer up.' Raven says, smirking, 'You're not a complete lost cause so chin up and sally forth.'

Sally forth?

Clarke snorts, shooting her friend a grateful smile.

'Besides,' Raven says around a mouthful of chips as Clarke scrambles for shoes. 'tonight can't be that bad.'

'Oh yeah?' Clarke challenges, frowning at the two different heels in her hands, 'Then how come you're in pajamas instead of trussed up like a Christmas ham like me?' she turns around, lifts the shoes, 'Call it.'

Raven waves a chip at Clarke's right hand, 'Wear the pink. The black's expected.' Then throwing the chip into her mouth, 'And to answer your other question - because I'm smarter than you.'

'Not going to dispute that.' Clarke throws the black heel back into the closet unceremoniously. Raven's right, the blush-pink stiletto sandal with its winding ankle straps was a much better choice, 'Mom would love to see you again.'

'I just saw Abby yesterday at the hospital.' Raven says drily, 'But good try, next one.'

'Free booze?'

Raven points at her thigh where a bandage peaks from under the hem of her shorts. 'That will screw with my meds.'

'Free food?'

The firefighter brandishes her packet of chips, grinning.

Clarke sighs. 'Yeah, I'd give up tonight for chips too.'

'How the hell did you manage at these events twenty plus years?'

Clarke drops on the edge of the bed to fix the strap of her heel. 'Wells and I teamed up -'

Wells.

Her fingers fist as her breath is ripped from her.

When will the pain stop?

Will it ever stop?

If it stops, does it mean she'll forget him?

She rather suffer than forget Wells Jaha.

The bed moves as Raven crawls over the bedding to swing her legs over the side, settling in next to Clarke.

She keeps her eyes averted and hopes that Raven thinks the pink Clarke knows is streaking her cheeks is just blusher.

'One of these days, ' Raven whispers, nudging her shoulder, 'we're going to get good and drunk and if you're feeling up to it, you're going to tell me all about Wells.'

Panic coats her throat because she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to talk about the best friend she turned her back on and then got killed. But she still nods.

'Give me twenty and I'll pull out a dress -.'

'Wait, what - no, no,' Clarke protests quickly, grabbing Raven's arm, 'I'm just whining, promise.' she meets Raven's eyes, compassion swirling in their depths, and squeezes her arm, 'Rest. Keep your weight off that leg. I'll be fine.'

Raven rests her chin on Clarke's shoulder. 'Finn was a disaster but getting you out of it? I'd do it again.'

Clarke laughs and pushes Raven away teasingly. She stands and turns, hands on hips. 'Well?'

The brunette twirls a finger and when Clarke spins around obligingly, winks. 'Just remember to text me when someone takes you home.'

Clarke rolls her eyes but grins, stealing a last look at the mirror.

The dove-grey gown is flattering, baring a shoulder completely and gathered low at one hip to fall to the ground in soft folds. The colour made her eyes look more grey than blue and the material is silk-lined.

Clarke doesn't want to admit that she had chosen the gown because of its obvious Roman-inspired design.

Raven follows her out to the door, bare feet tapping on the wooden floor, her bag of chips crinkling merrily. She rather stay home with Raven and binge watch Game of Thrones. Or Flash. She might be developing a crush on the entire cast.

'Hey.'

Clarke pauses when Raven's hand wraps around her upper arm. When she turns, her friend's face is sober, the humour in her eyes replaced by worry.

'Are you sure you're up to this?' Raven asks quietly.

Clarke waves a hand. 'I've handled worse than a couple of gossipy women and condescending old farts -'

'That's not what I'm talking about.' Raven says, her head tilting, 'We had a rough call not even a week ago and I don't think you've completely shaken it off.'

'Raven,' Clarke tries to laugh, 'you're the one who tried to run back into a burning building. Wounded, I might add.'

But Raven just presses her lips together. 'Don't brush it off, Clarke. I saw what having Bellamy in that building did to you.'

She doesn't reply straight away because - well, because Raven was right. She hasn't shaken it off. She never thought she'd say this but for the last several days, she's been missing her usual dreams because now all she has are nightmares.

Nightmares of Bellamy not returning, not coming back out of that building and every night she wakes up in a cold sweat and shaking.

But she doesn't want to think about it now.

She lifts her chin. 'I'm fine, Raven. Really.'

The brunette huffs out a sigh and releases her, lifting her hands up in surrender. Clarke squeezes her friend's shoulder, pecking her on the cheek, grateful she had let it go.

'Say hi to Abby for me.' Raven calls as Clarke opens the door.

'I thought you just saw her yesterday.' she arches a brow at Raven over her shoulder.

Raven shrugs. 'I did. But it doesn't hurt to say hi again.'

'Alright then.'

'And bring me back something fancy. Like a two hundred dollar bottle of champagne or something.'

Clarke pauses again, hand on the door. 'Aren't you on meds?'

'I won't be on them forever.' Raven rolls her eyes.

'I'll sneak something out of the bar.' Clarke promises with a smile and turns again to leave.

'Hey, Clarke?'

Halting, she turns again, laughing. 'And I'll stuff my purse full of whatever over-priced crap they're serving.'

Raven shifts on her feet, 'Well, now that you mention -' her eyes move to a point beyond and above Clarke. Her smile flashes, wide and entirely too satisfied, 'Bellamy!'

Clarke turns so quickly she has to grab the door to keep her balance, butterflies erupting in her belly.

Bellamy, stands in front of the open door, only feet away from her.

Freshly showered too, from the look of his gleaming unruly curls and in a sleeveless undershirt showing off an unfair amount of deep gold skin and smelling mouth-wateringly good.

He has freckles, tiny amber droplets, scattered across the wide expanse of his shoulders.

Clarke's mouth goes dry as she imagines herself tracing the path of those freckles with her lips.

She's too busy staring at him to realise that he was doing the same.

Then her body begins to warm as his eyes move across her face, turning hot as they shift to her bared shoulder, lingering at her breasts and the way the fabric moulded itself to them, before dropping to her hips. Everywhere his eyes touched, Clarke's skin tightens and the butterflies dissolve as a glowing ember is dropped into the depths of her belly, heating her blood. By the time Bellamy's eyes linger again on her shoulder before returning to meet her own, Clarke's sure that her cheeks are a match for the wine-red of her lips.

He holds her gaze, his eyes are hard and hungry, she knows that look and Clarke forgets about the party, forgets that she was already late, forgets that she has a car waiting for her downstairs. She forgets her misgivings about him, forgets everything but Bellamy and how he looks at her and how much she wants to step into him, press herself against him and -

'What are you doing here, Bellamy?'

Raven's voice breaks the spell and Clarke tears her eyes away, heart a drum-line in her ears.

'You texted _me_ , Raven.' Bellamy's voice, rougher than usual, bites out.

'Oh, that's right! I had completely forgotten.'

Raven's laugh is too bright, her tone too innocent and with a start, Clarke realises what Raven had done.

Her head snaps around to glare at the brunette. Smile never slipping, Raven blinks big brown eyes back at Clarke.

Clarke hopes Raven can read the death threat in her own.

Raven's smile widens, turns wicked, and she transfers her gaze behind Clarke. 'Bellamy, doesn't Clarke look absolutely gorgeous?' she cocks her head gleefully, 'All Roman goddess-y. Since _you're_ a Roman history buff, don't you think -'

'I'm late.' Clarke blurts out, cutting the firefighter off.

She throws Raven a glare, sneaks a last peek at Bellamy and doesn't know if she's disappointed or relieved to see that Bellamy isn't looking at her but is watching Raven instead, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

''Kay, have fun!' Raven calls out cheerily as Clarke inches away from Bellamy and moves out of the doorway, 'Remember to text if you're not coming home tonight!'

She's going to kill Raven.

At the landing, Bellamy's voice reaches Clarke in a low growl. 'What the fuck was that, Raven?'

Raven's laugh follows Clarke down the stairs. 'You're telling me Clarke turned up to a party you're at, looking like _that_ , and you wouldn't at least try to fu -'

The slam of the apartment door echoes like a shot down the stairwell.

Clarke grips the banister and sucks in several breaths.

She's going to _kill_ Raven.

But first, she needs to survive tonight.

Thankfully, when she gets there, the first face she sees is a friendly one.

'You look like you need this more than I do.' Jacapo Sinclair says, handing her the champagne flute he had just plucked from a passing waiter.

Clarke snorts and accepts with a muttered thanks.

'Although,' the Chief Engineer of Arkadia's biggest tech company continues, dryly, 'I still feel like someone is going arrest me for giving a minor alcohol.'

'Don't worry,' Clarke breathes through a swallow of fizzy bubbles, 'I have my I.D. and a cop's card in my purse.'

Sinclair laughs and Clarke finally smiles. She's known Sinclair since before she could walk and although she didn't know him as well as Thelonious Jaha, she friendly enough with him.

'I didn't expect to see you here.' Clarke says and nods at his black tie, 'You look very dashing, though.'

Sinclair sighs, hands in pockets. 'Our host is funding our latest project and it would have rude to turn down the invitation.'

'Ah.'

'And you?'

'Moral support for Mom.' she confides, 'My flatmate couldn't make it so alcohol will have to do it for me.'

'Ah, yes.' Sinclair says, eyes crinkling, 'Raven Reyes, right?'

The tech genius circle was small enough in Arkadia but -

'You know her?' Clarke asks, eyes narrowing.

Sinclair laughs, 'When she was seventeen, Raven sent me a twenty -three page essay on why our design of a solar power grid that could supply all of Arkadia, was faulty. She began the letter with 'Dear Sir,' and ended it with 'dumbass'.' he grins, strangely proud, 'I checked the specs myself and she was right. She's been consulting for us ever since. She's even brought on board some more brilliant minds.' his smiles softens to something gentle and kind and fond, 'She's one of a kind, our Raven Reyes.'

Clarke listens, mouth dropping open - not because she's surprised at Raven's genius but because she's finally connecting the dots and _Sinclair_ is who Raven, Monty and Jasper had referred to dramatically as 'The Boss' like they had watched one too many reruns of The Godfather.

 _Sinclair_ is who Raven talks about with such exasperated fondness and casualness that Clarke associates with her own attitude towards her own father.

'Clarke?'

She starts at her mother's voice and turns just as Abby joins them, moving forward to hug Sinclair.

But before they could continue their conversation, a man lifts his hand at Sinclair and with a muttered apology, the engineer leaves them.

Clarke sighs and tips back the rest of her drink.

'Bad day?' Abby asks her quietly, sympathetically rubbing her back.

Clarke's lips tip up in a rueful smile. 'Weird week.' she confesses as they move in deeper into the house.

Abby hums. 'Perhaps you should have skipped this one. Go home, Clarke.'

'And leave you to deal alone with the barracudas?' Clarke mutters, clinking her flute against hers, 'Come on, Mom, we Griffin women need to stick together.'

When Abby's reply doesn't come, she glances at her mother and sees Abby watching her thoughtfully.

'What?'

'There's something different about you.' Abby murmurs, eyes roving across Clarke's face.

'Mom -'

'It's a compliment.' Abby smiles and reaches out to tug the curl Clarke had pinned back, out of her chignon and forward to fall in her face. 'The change looks good on you.'

'Abigail!'

Both women turn at the voice and the woman it belongs to, tall, raven-haired, false smile, gorgeous in a way that would make her a shoo-in should she ever audition for one of Dracula's brides.

She was also the woman who tried to get Abby fired not five years ago to make way for her husband's promotion. Her attempt had back-fired.

Clarke clears her throat and sips her drink, averting her eyes.

She may have learnt how to swim in murky waters with the best of the sharks in here but watching them show off their teeth can be tiring.

'Hi!' Abby calls back and in a lower voice to Clarke, 'Are you coming?'

'Nope.' Clarke whispers.

'What happened to Griffin women stick together?'

'Even that has a limit and its limit is Henrietta McKinley.'

'Traitor.' Abby hisses and moves away.

Clarke buries her smile in her drink and moves to hide behind a pillar.

The venue is beautiful, of course, a string quartet playing at the edge of the ballroom floor, the food is great, the alcohol flowing.

Clarke thinks wistfully of home and her pyjamas.

She wonders if Bellamy is still there and shoves the thought away almost as soon as it enters her head.

Over the music, she hears a man's voice, low and annoyed and woman's lighter tone. Their voices are too low for her to make out the words, but judging by their tones, there was an argument brewing on the other side of her pillar.

Clarke peeks out and her brows go up in surprise.

Lexa stands with her back to Clarke, engaged in an heated discussion with an older man. The man reaches out to grab Lexa's arm and the petite brunette wrenches it away. The man huffs and shaking his head, steps away and spins on his heel.

The firefighter's shoulders slump and she drains the glass in her hand.

Empathy is an ache in Clarke's bones.

Then Lexa turns around, obviously looking for another drink, and her eyes meet Clarke's, widening.

The sight of Lexa, hair flowing around her shoulders and down her back, resplendent in a black sheath gown, diamonds winking at her ears and at her neck, strikes a memory. Clarke smiles and waits as Lexa moves towards her.

'I thought you looked familiar.' she tells Lexa when the brunette stops in front of her, 'You're a debutante.' Clarke can't stop the disbelief seeping into her voice, 'You had your coming out ball a few years before mine.'

'If only I remained the debutante.' Lexa replies bitterly, glancing in the direction where the man had disappeared.

Empathy turns into sympathy.

'I'm sorry.' Clarke says quietly.

'My father doesn't approve.' Lexa smiles tightly. 'Thinks it's unbecoming of a Woods woman to be consistently covered in soot and scars.' Then smile slipping, eyes sliding away, 'Forgive me.' she whispers, 'I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I spoke without much thought.'

'No!' Clarke hastens to say, 'It's not that - I was just a little surprised.'

‘You were taken back that a literal stranger blurted out their life’s story without even a by-your-leave?’ Lexa asks, eyes wry.

Clarke lifts a shoulder, studying Lexa.

This could have been her had her parents not been who they were. She could have been the one constantly battling expectations.

Her father had died before Clarke made the switch from surgeon-hopeful to paramedic but Clarke knew he wouldn't have cared. Her fingers find the stethoscope pendant under her dress, presses it into her flesh as the memory of him stings a wound not completely healed. As for Abby, acceptance had been easy but it took her witnessing Clarke in the field before she began actively supporting Clarke's choice.

So she can't say she completely understands Lexa's dilemma but she can empathise on a certain level.

There’s steel in Lexa – steel hidden by diamonds and an elegant black dress, steel that has the potential to make her harsh and forbidding, steel borne from the heartbreak in her eyes.

The problem is, sometimes steel begets loneliness.

Clarke wonders if this is what her mother meant, if she had seen in Clarke what Clarke sees in Lexa’s eyes now.

And empathy rises again.

‘Would you like to find a table?’ she asks Lexa gently, ‘You can talk or we can just drink and bitch. Your choice.’

Lexa’s mouth opens and she stares at Clarke. Then, eyes softening further, ‘I’d like that.’

Two hours later, they’re sequestered at a corner table. There’s a bottle of white wine, newly opened, and Clarke had just handed off an empty bottle to an amused waiter.

‘I had never seen my mother look more scandalised in her life,’ Lexa was giggling, her cheeks flushed, ‘And Costia just lifts her nose in the air and walks out wearing nothing but my sheet. I got grounded for a month, which,’ she shrugs, 'fine, I wasn't allowed to have anyone over after school without permission, but it was worth it.'

Clarke tries to keep the wine she had just sipped from coming out of her nose.

‘She sounds amazing.’

Lexa's giggles quiet as sadness flashes across her face, ‘She is.’ then clearing her throat, ' Since we're talking. Lieutenant Blake?'

What?

Clarke, thrown, just blinks at her. 'Uh -' she regains her wine-muddled senses, 'No. It's not like that.'

The brunette lifts a brow. 'Oh?'

'No, really.' Clarke takes a healthy gulp of wine, 'He hates me, I ha - well, it's complicated.'

'That's not what I saw last week.' Lexa tilts her head and amends, 'The hate, I mean.'

 _And how about_ , a quiet voice reminds her, _the way he looked at you tonight?_

'Like I said,' Clarke finally allows, 'it's complicated. And I'm really not looking to do complicated right now.' she upends her glass, reminds herself that she's through being hurt, and crooks a finger at the brunette, 'Let me tell you a story of a guy I once dated. His name was Finn.'

She tells Lexa about the disaster that was Finn, the glory that was Raven and as she and Lexa giggle over exes and lessons learnt, Clarke thinks about Costia, about the woman Lexa spoke of with bright eyes.

‘You must have loved her very much.’ she says.

Lexa’s smile turns sad. 'I do.'

‘Shit, I’m sor –‘

‘It's fine.’ Lexa says, straightening, ‘I do. I just miss her.’

Clarke’s heart goes out to the brunette. She hesitates then reaches over the table to place her hand over Lexa’s. ‘What happened?’

Lexa’s mouth tightens and the steel returns to her eyes. ‘She’s gone. She left.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Lexa laughs but bitterness has entered it again. ‘Don’t be.’ She throws back the rest of her drink and leans over to pour more, ‘It was my fault.' she lifts the glass and drinks deep, setting the glass down with a hard clink. ‘She was wild-hearted and fearless and my parents -' Lexa clenches her jaw, 'She was good enough for a firefighter but not good enough for a Woods. They liked to point out that their legacy will not be the fall of the Woods name and I -' Lexa blows out a slow breath, 'I chose duty over my heart.'

Horror mixes uneasily with the wine in her stomach.

‘Hey.’ Clarke grabs Lexa’s wrist before it can lift again, ‘You don’t have to do it their way. Maybe your legacy will be change and change isn’t always a bad thing.’

Lexa stills, studies her and Clarke ducks her head.

‘Or maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ Clarke pulls back, laughing awkwardly. Then she sighs, ‘But I do know that you’re more than just duty. Women have been regulated to that for far too long.’

The brunette keeps staring at her and then reaches out to grasp Clarke’s hand.

‘Thank you.’ she whispers. 'I think you're the first person outside my firehouse to actually voice that to me.'

Clarke offers her a nod and a small smile, thinking of her 82. 'It's good you have them then.'

'Yeah.' Lexa murmurs and her eyes are finally soft and sweet, 'I don't know where I'd be without them.'

'I'm starting to understand that feeling too.' Clarke murmurs.

Lexa's gaze turns to Clarke as she studies her and when her eyes drop to her mouth, Clarke realises just how physically close they were.

'You're very beautiful.' Lexa whispers.

Clarke smiles, wry. 'Thank you.' she inclines her head, 'So are you.'

Smiling, the brunette leans back. Her eyes, bright with alcohol and frank interest, drift across Clarke's face.

Clarke lets her look and waits.

'Would you like to finish this bottle at my apartment?'

She's prepared for Lexa's question but Clarke still feels a little thrown. The 'Yes' is on the tip of her tongue but she still hesitates.

Bellamy's face flashes before her eyes and Clarke pushes it ruthlessly back.

'No strings.' Lexa promises softly. 'Like I said, I can see what's in front of me so I'm holding you to no promises. But,' she lifts a shoulder, 'we deserve this.'

She's right.

Clarke deserves this too, something sweet and simple and without complications and Lexa is offering it to her.

Bellamy is the opposite of simple and everything she associates with him - her visions, her dreams, her feelings - too intense, too heavy - for him, her confusion, her lingering anger at his earlier treatment of her - is complicated.

She could really use uncomplicated tonight and from the look of things, Lexa does too.

Drawing in a breath, Clarke meets Lexa's eyes. 'I'd like that.'

Back at Lexa's apartment, Lexa tastes of wine and want, sweet and sharp, when she kisses Clarke. They stand in the glow of the brunette's bedside lamp and Clarke closes her eyes, lets herself get lost in Lexa's gentle touch. She's soft flesh and sleek curves and she's a considerate lover.

Afterwards, Lexa lifts up on her elbow next to Clarke. She looks like she's casting around for something to say. Then, 'Can I see you again?'

Clarke presses her lips together, her turn to hesitate.

Lexa's attraction to her is about as obvious as the fact that she's on the rebound from Costia.

And Clarke is - Bellamy is - Vulcan, Venus, Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy.

Clarke doesn't even know how to begin to describe their relationship outside of a professional capacity.

But this with Lexa, this strange meeting of wounded, hesitant bodies, Clarke knows how to describe this.

'Okay.' she finally agrees.

They fall asleep tangled around each other and Clarke's last coherent thought is a prayer for dreamless sleep.

****

A fortnight later, she's pulling to the curb of the Firehouse and wondering who she pissed off in a past life to have Cage Wallace waiting for her before she started a 6am shift.

'Clarke!' he waves, signature slick smile, as he straightens out from his car.

She swings out of her own, lifting her duffel bag to rest on her shoulder. 'What do you want, Cage?'

After their last alteration in Kane's office, she thought things had been spelled out clearly for him and, truth be told, had not expected to see him again so soon. In fact, she was hoping never to set eyes on him again.

'I have something you might want to see.'

'I doubt that.' she mutters but continues walking towards him.

She has no other choice - she has to pass him in order to get to the station. When he meets her on the sidewalk and offers her an unmarked cream manila folder, Clarke stops.

'What's this?' she asks, staring at the folder like it was a coiled snake.

'You'll find it of some interest.' Cage flicks his fingers at her, 'Go on. Open it.'

She takes it, flips back the cover, stares at the first page. There's a photo of a woman stapled to top - dark haired, high cheekbones, beautiful despite the hard look in her green eyes. She also looks strangely familiar.

Clarke skims the page, returns to the top and once she realises what she's reading, she's snapping the folder closed again, heart pounding in her ears.

'You've got to be kidding me.' she bites out as rage courses hot through her veins, 'You can't do this.'

Cage smiles at her, sickly sweet. 'But I can, my dear. Senator Degraw can.'

Clarke would describe his eyes as snake-like but that would be insulting the poor creatures.

'Fine.' she whispers so that she doesn’t start screaming, 'You win. I won't contest the suspension.'

'And you'll convince your Lieutenant to take the deal.' the APA officer continues smoothly, 'Convince him to rescind his report, lodge an amended one without anything - how shall we describe it?' he puts his hands behind his back, his brow furrowing in mock thought, 'Untoward?' When Clarke opens her mouth, he cocks his head at her, 'Something tells me he's a private man and he wouldn’t take kindly to you having that file. We wouldn't want to create dissention in the ranks. But I'm sure you'll find a way.'

For a second, Clarke can't speak past the rage and disgust choking her. Then she's stepping back and away before she gives in to the temptation to slug him.

'You're fucking despicable.' she throws at him as she turns back towards the station.

An outraged inhalation came from behind her. 'Clarke, your langua -'

'Kiss my fucking ass.' she snaps, not looking back.

She slams into the house, struggling to push down the rage, the disgust, before someone noticed.

'Hey!'

Too late.

She turns her head, sees Raven at one end of the corridor, an empty laundry basket in her hands. The firefighter bends to slide the basket out of sight before jogging over to her. As she closes in, her eyes drift across Clarke's face.

'Whoa,' Raven says, brows drawing down, 'who pissed you off?'

Clarke shakes her head, still unable to speak, the folder burning against her fingertips. Together, they walk into the common room and Clarke throws her bag and the file onto the counter of the island as she passes to the cupboards.

She lifts a mug at Raven who nods, sliding onto a stool at the island. Clarke pours them coffee, pushing the milk and sugar towards the firefighter. After the first fortifying sip, Clarke leans into the counter, taking in the common area at a glance.

Monty is on his phone at the main table. On the other side of the room, Jasper and Harper are arguing over a word, the crossword page of the Arkadia Times spread over the surface of the small circular table. Murphy is watching them over his bowl of cereal. Monroe and Sterling are laid out on the couches watching the news.

Bellamy is absent and Clarke doesn't know if it's a good thing or not.

On the counter next to Raven's elbow, the file sits innocently.

This is going to hurt him and regardless of everything that has happened between them - is happening - she doesn't want that to happen.

God, how is she going to tell Bellamy?

She can't protect him if he doesn't know just how much he stands to lose.

She never wanted to hurt him.

He needed to take the deal. There was no other way, he needed to take it.

Cage's words echo in her brain and Clarke sets her mug down with a click. He's right, she knows, Bellamy is going to resent the fact that that file exists, that she knows that file exists, that she knows anything about it.

Clarke rubs at her eyes with a hand, suddenly exhausted, knowledge a heavy weight on her mind.

'Cage.' she whispers, looking up and seeing understanding dawning across Raven's face, 'He caught me outside. Gave me that.' she jerks her chin at the folder.

'How bad is it?' Raven asks, glancing down at the file, making no move to touch it, 'Ballpark for me.'

Clarke pauses, hesitates - not because she didn't trust Raven but because maybe if she utters the words out loud, they become true - Cage's threat against Bellamy becomes reality. And maybe she can't fully admit to herself how afraid she is for him, let alone to someone else.

She shakes her head. 'It's - it's fine.'

'Clarke -'

'I'll handle it, Raven.'

'Hey.' Raven's eyes have sharpened, hardening, 'Look, I get that you've been on your own for a while but,' her hand flashes out, grips Clarke's, 'you're not alone anymore. You have people here who care about you - I care. So let me help with whatever it is. Talk to me, Clarke.'

Clarke stares at her friend, sees the resolve in her brown eyes, the fierceness, and wonders how she became so lucky to have had Raven Reyes come into her life. Knowing - just knowing - that Raven was there was enough to ease her shoulders and once she opened her mouth, the words spilled.

'He's going after Bellamy.' Clarke blurts out, not daring to meet Raven's eyes which had widened at her confession. 'He's going after Bellamy and using _that_ as leverage to get him to change his incident report.' she tugs on her braid in agitation, 'I haven't seen it all but he's got information on Bellamy that could -' she shakes her head, bites her lip and falls silent.

Raven remains silent, looking down at the folder, jaw tight. She makes no move to open it and Clarke realises with a start that Raven didn't need to read the file because she already knows what's in it.

She wonders if she should have just asked her about Bellamy's past that night at The Dalmatian. She might have been better prepared for this.

'Bellamy doesn't know yet.' Raven states quietly.

Clarke shakes her head.

'You need to tell him. He can't be blindsided by this.' Raven whispers, echoing Clarke's earlier thoughts.

'I know. I will.'

But that's easier said than done.

'Hey.' Raven says, voice suddenly soft. Clarke looks up as the brunette leans in to grab her hand. 'It's gonna be okay. It's not as bad as you think.' the firefighter whispers, 'Bellamy's going to be fine. And we,' she squeezes Clarke's hand, 'are gonna be okay. We'll make it work.'

Clarke nods.

She doesn't know how she's going to tell Bellamy but screw Cage, she's going to tell him. She's going to make this right again, fix things, and she can't protect Bellamy from her mistakes if he doesn't have the full story.

Then a helpless laugh bubbles out of her because how did hating him turn into needing to protect him?

When Raven reaches out and cups her cheek, Clarke leans into her palm, grateful for the comfort in her warm touch.

'We'll be fine.' Raven tells her firmly.

'Bartender in the house!'

As the call goes up, Clarke's head lifts to see Gina standing in the frame of the common room, brown paper bagged groceries on her hip, eyes flicking between her and Raven. And the mystery of Bellamy's whereabouts is solved because that's him walking up behind Gina, easy smile on his face, a matching grocery bag in his arms.

It's barely six in the morning and there they were, strolling in together like -

Green tinged acid surges up Clarke's throat, shocking her with its strength and the amount of pain it injects into her lungs.

When did that happen?

How did it happen?

Cage's whisper reminds her that Bellamy is a private man.

Then Clarke's swallowing down the saliva pooling in her mouth, hastily rearranging her features when she sees the bartender looking at her. Gina blinks at her, uncertainty flashing across her face, before Raven spins around on her stool, and the emotion fades as the bartender flashes them a grin.

'Bartender bearing gifts.' Gina laughs, pink cheeked from the cold, as Bellamy relieves her of her burdens, 'Thanks, babe.' She shifts on her feet, hands flat on her jeans, and steps towards them when Miller swaggers in behind her.

'Gina.' he grins and the brunette turns instead towards him, 'Hey.' When Gina moves towards him with a bright smile, Miller dips his head, pressing his lips to her cheek, 'What're you doing here?'

Gina laughs and releases him. 'The Dalmatian takes its duty of feeding House 82 very seriously.'

Bellamy walks towards the kitchenette, setting the bags down on the counter, and Clarke's breath hitches. He's dangerously close to the file and Raven discretely places her elbow on it.

He's still in civilians, a faded band t-shirt and dark jeans, the strap of a backpack slung across a shoulder. He'll be needing a haircut soon but the look works on him.

Too well.

He looks almost as he did the day Clarke first started. The day he walked in, took one look at her and became a raging asshole.

'Jesus,' Bellamy mutters, now standing at the percolator, 'did you two even leave the rest of us coffee or did you guzzle it all?'

'Go to hell.' Clarke snaps, bitterness and acid controlling her tongue.

Bellamy's shoulders tighten.

'Right.' he bites out, pushing away from the counter.

'Really?' Raven hisses at her before turning her glare to Bellamy's back as he joins Gina on the other side of the room.

Clarke tells herself that it was annoyance that sharpened her voice and ignores Raven's frustrated huff, ignores the guilt that spreads in her chest. She watches Bellamy and Gina, their easy conversation, their playfulness, their comfort in each other and the taste of acid in her mouth heightens.

Finally, Clarke tears her eyes away from the couple, struggling to control breathing that has picked up because the sight of Bellamy with someone else , someone who isn't her, feels wrong.

 _Check yourself_ , a voice in her head warns.

Clarke snaps out of it, horror at where her thoughts had lead her.

Wrong?

_Wrong?_

Who the hell was she to dictate who Bellamy should or should not be with?

_What's wrong with me?_

Head spinning, she leans across Raven to stuff the file into her bag and swings it off the counter. When Raven turns away from the sight of Bellamy and Gina now casually flirting, Clarke lifts the duffel muttering, 'Locker room.' and pushes away as Raven opens her mouth.

Keeping her head down, she walks across the room, cursing her stupidity silently when she realises she needs to pass Bellamy and Gina on her way out. Quietly, she hunches her shoulders and squeezes between Gina's back and the main table, making herself as small as possible.

'Shit, sorry, Clarke.'

Crap.

She swallows and turns, fixing on a smile as she turns to face the bartender, 'Hey.' then automatically, 'How are you?'

Clarke does not look at the silent man standing on Gina's other side.

'Can't complain.' the brunette shrugs a fair shoulder, dimples flirting, 'You?'

_I'm hallucinating, I'm almost certain I'm losing my mind and I think I might be jea -_

'Fine.' Clarke replies hoarsely and if the laughter that rasps from her sounds a little hysterical, Gina doesn't bat a tawny eyelash. Clarke lifts her duffel bag again, 'Just going to put my stuff away.'

The bartender nods and Clarke ducks her head, ignoring the weight of Bellamy's eyes on her, moves away.

'Oh hey, Clarke?'

Fuck.

Stopping at the entrance, Clarke turns her head, impatient.

Gina tilts her head at the bags on the counter, bronze waves spilling over a shoulder. 'I grabbed a pack of those honey roasted pecans you liked at the bar.' she winks, 'Might want to get on those before anyone else spots them.'

Clarke's mouth opens. Closes.

'Thanks, Gina.' she says quietly.

The brunette lifts a shoulder and grins before turning back to Bellamy.

This time when Clarke turns to go, it's not Bellamy's gaze that burn the back of her neck.

This time, it's shame.

It's not Gina's fault that Clarke's world is crumbling slowly around her. It's not her fault that pressure and stress and a lack of sleep weigh heavy on Clarke's shoulders. It's not her fault that Clarke is struggling and confused and pissed off. It's not her fault that Bellamy had been an ass. It's not her fault that Clarke's relationship with Bellamy was rocky.

And Bellamy may own some but even he can't carry the blame alone either.

 _It's not her fault that you're jealous,_ her mind whispers.

Clarke escapes.

In the locker rooms, Clarke leans her forehead against the 'Griffin' written in Sharpie on a strip of white tape plastered on the metal door. She needs to pull herself together, needs to focus on what's important.

And what's important is finding out a way to tell Bellamy about Cage so that they can figure a way to stop shit from hitting the fan.

She sucks in a breath and releases it slowly. Takes another. And a third.

And if he hates her for knowing more about him than he's comfortable with, so be it.

She straightens, whispers, 'Get it together, Griffin.'

The silence in the locker room mocks her.

The siren blares.

'Ambulance 6, Truck 18, Rescue Squad 47. Structure fire.'

As Dispatch rattles out an address, Clarke shoves everything out of her mind, yanks open her locker door and throwing her duffel inside before running out . As she rounds a corner, her feet slide on the tiled floor and the world goes alarmingly off kilter for a second before she catches herself against the wall.

Chiding her carelessness, she jogs more slowly down the corridor towards the main doors.

Gina steps into sight, profile to Clarke, firefighters piling past her. Bellamy appears, a faint smile on his wide mouth before laughing at something the bartender says.

His lips quirk again, devastating in their beauty, before he leans down to Gina.

He kisses her.

A wounded sound leaves Clarke's throat as an invisible fist slams into her solar plexis.

She skids to a stop as the force rips the air out of her lungs, leaving in its wake a vibrating, pounding ache that radiates up her torso with breathtaking speed. Once it reaches her chest, the ache sharpens into something vicious and sharp-clawed, tearing at her rib cage to get at her heart.

Bellamy lifts his head, laughs again before the couple move out the door.

The kiss couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, a simple brush of lips against lips, but for Clarke, it lasted an eternity.

She forces herself to breathe again, heat prickling at the back of her eyes. It takes an effort but she gets her feet moving under her again, running now to catch up with everyone else.

Her heart hammers in panic as the razor-sharp ache threatens, getting closer with each beat.

Refusing to look anywhere else but the ambo, Clarke swings into the passenger seat as Monty brings it to life.

As they pull out after the trucks, the world spins off kilter again as the image of Bellamy pressing his mouth to Gina's flashes before her closed lids.

The phantom pain of her rib cage splitting apart rolls through her as her heart gets torn asunder under the violence of her emotions, leaves her shaking and clenching her fingers into fists.

Is this what a lover's betrayal feels like?

Didn't Bellamy tell her he loved her, just last night? Didn't he hold her in his arms, whisper those very words against her lips? Didn't she tell him that he held her heart in his hands?

Didn't Bellamy take her hand, heavy with his ring - the ring he had crafted himself, a golden circlet that adorned her finger in a woven crown of delicate myrtle leaves and blooms - and pressed his lips to it?

Hadn't he renewed his marriage vow to her in the quiet of their bedroom? Hadn't she whispered her own promise to him?

She was so happy last night, so in love, so lost in the beautiful heat of Bellamy's love.

 _But that wasn't Bellamy_ , a voice suddenly cuts into her thoughts, strident and jarring. _That wasn't Bellamy, it reminds her harshly, and that wasn't you._

She closes her eyes, presses the heels of her palms deep into them and tries to catch her breath as her mind spins, spins, spins, reality and dreams a confusing jumble of images and emotions.

It wasn't Bellamy. That was Vulcan. And it wasn't her he loved, that was Venus.

 _This is_ Bellamy _who can't even stand your touch on his arm - in what reality would he ever hold you?_

But that was so - if Bellamy wasn't Vulcan and if she wasn't Venus - then why did it still hurt? Why did she still feel like her heart had been torn out of her chest and thrown to the dogs?

 _This is Bellamy_ , her sanity reminds her, _who's now with Gina and you are Clarke who is now seeing Lexa._

Clarke's head jerks up, reality snapping back like a rubber band too tightly stretched.

What was she thinking?

True to her word, Lexa had never pressured her into promises or made her felt like she needed to give them and things were sweetly casual between them but the guilt is still there.

And yet the pain in her chest doesn't abate and guilt just adds to it.

Oh god, she's crying.

Why the fuck is she crying?

Clarke swipes viciously at the hot tears gathering under her lashes.

'Clarke?' Monty whispers below the sound of sirens, 'What happened?'

She draws in a shuddering breath, focuses on the buildings they're flying past.

Get your head in the game, Griffin. There's no time for that.

'I'm fine.' she says resolutely but she doesn’t know if she's telling Monty or herself, 'I'm fine.'

Structure fire.

Oxygen masks. Respirators. Shock blankets.

She's fine.

Intravenous fluids. Endotracheal tubes. Twill tape.

She's fine.

Anectine. Morphine. Adrenaline. Naloxone.

She's fine.

Damn you, she's fine.

Fifteen minutes later, they're pulling up in a neighbourhood to a home, flames licking out of a second story window, sparks flying to melt in the air. There's a crowd gathering in a half circle around the front of the house being pushed back to safer distance by Sterling.

The two Lieutenants are standing with Kane in front of the building. Clarke braces herself at the sight of Bellamy, back to her. Reminding herself that she's fine and yanking everything in again and locking it down deep, Clarke turns her eyes to the house and keeps her ears open.

If she loses concentration now, it can cost someone their life.

There's nothing as sobering as that.

'Wood frame house.' Miller is saying as she and Monty draw close. He lifts a halligan bar to point the homes on either side of the burning building, 'Those would be too.'

'We better move fast then.' Bellamy states.

Clarke doesn't know much about fire-fighting but she does know that wood-frames are a Type V and considered the most combustible structure.

'Chief!' Jasper jogs up to the three men studying the house, 'Neighbours say the house belongs to Richard and Miranda Rice. They're usually not back until 7pm.' He pushes back his helmet, rubs a glove over his goateed chin. 'Hopefully, they followed that routine today.'

'Alright, preliminary sweeps - we make sure no one's in there.' Kane orders, ' Squad, you take first level. Truck, you're on ground.'

Bellamy nods. 'Yessir.'

The teams assemble, move in.

It doesn't take long before Miller's voice sounds from the radio on Kane's shoulder, 'Ground floor clear.' and a minute later, Bellamy's ,'First floor clear.'

'Alright, Truck and Squad, come on out,' Kane instructs, 'We're gonna fight this thing from the outside.'

'Copy that.' Miller's voice comes through followed by Bellamy's confirmation.

Miller and Jasper are already appearing out the front door when a voice, high-pitched and terrified cuts into the air.

'Help!'

Clarke swivels to see a young boy, dark-haired, running out of the gate from the house next door.

'My mom!' he's yelling as he rushes the group on the lawn, 'She won't wake up!'

She only needs Kane's nod before she starts moving towards the kid. As she does, she lays a staying hand on Monty's arm before he can follow her.

'Check them out,' she jerks her chin at Miller and Jasper, 'I got this.'

Monty nods, already turning towards the firefighters. 'On it.'

The little boy has made it to her and has a small hand on her arm, tugging at her urgently.

'Clarke.' Kane calls and she twists, still moving back, 'In and out, you hear? The wind changes, things can get very bad.'

'Got it, Chief!' she calls back and turns to the boy, 'Hey kid, I'm Clarke. What's your name?'

'Ethan.' the boy sniffs as he continues to tug her up the steps of his home.

'Okay, Ethan, can you tell me what happened?'

The home is small, a little clustered but neat, lovingly cared for. The heat from the fire next door warms the small confines of the home like a sauna and Clarke can feel sweat dripping down the side of her neck as Ethan leads her up the stairs.

'I don't know!' the boy says, a tremour in his voice, 'She went upstairs for a nap. And then the fire happened and I was trying to wake her up but she won't.' he turns to her briefly, big brown eyes, terror too stark for too young a face,' I tried. I did.'

He's trying so hard to be brave, Clarke realises with a twinging pulse in her throat and she reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. 'You did fine.' she promises.

Upstairs, the heat pricks at her skin and Clarke notes the open window in the bedroom as she and Ethan run in. The reek of smoke is heavy and choking in the room and the air is still a little hazy. The fire flickering through the windows of the other house seems uncomfortably close.

'Ethan, go stand near the door for me, okay?' she says, dropping the medkit and grabbing a pen-light and moving towards the still woman on the bed. 'What's your mom's name?'

'Cinda.' Ethan whispers, hovering at the doorway.

She leans over the woman, calling her by name before pressing two latex gloved fingers to her neck and lifting a closed lid to check her eyes.

Pulse is a little too slow for Clark's liking but she's responsive.

She pulls back, casting a wary look at the window framing a burning house way too close. Grabbing the radio at her shoulder, she opens the line, 'Monty, can you send a backboard? Upstairs, first room on the right.'

A hiss then, 'Copy that.'

As Clarke drops to the medkit to snatch up a C-collar, she glances at the boy in the doorway. 'Ethan, run downstairs? I want you to stand next to the door and wait for my friends to come, alright?' She doesn't like him being in the room - not when there's a fire so close by, not when the room is still heavy with smoke. When Ethan hesitates, his eyes shifting to his mother, Clarke stops to give him a reassuring smile, 'I promise to take good care of her.'

Finally Ethan nods and takes off.

Clarke's strapping the C-collar around Cinda's neck when a resounding crack tears into her eardrums, followed by the roar of fire given life by oxygen.

Whipping around, Clarke watches in heart-pounding detail as a portion of burning wall detaches from the other house, hovering in mid-air, above the window of the bedroom.

Then, like a guillotine, it falls.

Without thinking, she leaps for Cinda, throwing herself on top of the unconscious woman as the house rocks. The air still vibrating, Clarke grabs Cinda and rolls, taking them to the floor. They hit the carpet with a thud that knocks the breath out of her just as a heat wave sears the walls of the room.

She can hear flames crackling now and Clarke wiggles out, adrenaline coursing hard and fast in her veins. She digs her fingers into Cinda's shoulders and heaves, tugging the woman towards the door and away from the fire in the bedroom.

Out in the hallway, smoke begins to permeate the air. It seeps into her mouth, clogging her lungs and making it harder to simply breathe, let alone haul the weight of a full grown adult. But adrenaline is one hell of a rush and she throws her weight back until she manages to pull Cinda to the top of the stairs.

Then above the sinister crackle of flames, she hears it.

'Clarke?' a crash somewhere in the house, 'Clarke!'

She'd know that voice anywhere.

She's so relieved a laugh rasps out of her throat. 'Up here!'

There's the heavy thud of firefighter boots and Bellamy appears on the stairway, racing up and clearing the landing in a leap, Miller on his heels.

Clarke lets go of Cinda, turns to face the firefighters, 'Help me get her -'

Bellamy moves straight into her, filling her sight and shocking her into silence. His hand comes up to cup her jaw, abrading her cheek and neck with the rough fabric of his glove.

Then she gets a good look at Bellamy's face and sees how pale he is under the black ash streaking his cheekbones, sees the pin-point pupils of his eyes, the burning dry look in them. She notices for the first time that he's not wearing his helmet, that he has only one glove on and that he's still holding a water bottle in his other hand.

'I'm okay.' she tells him, low and soothing.

She forgets about earlier, forgets the way things really are for them, forgets everything that has happened and the words come from her on a primal instinct, reacting to his touch and the look in his eyes.

Then Monroe comes thundering up the stairs, backboard in hand, and the moment is broken.

Clarke tears herself away, returns to Cinda, Bellamy on her heels as the firefighters crouch down next to the unconscious woman.

On her instruction, they shift Cinda onto the board just as a crash sounds, shaking the floor.

She yanks the last strap into place across Cinda's chest. 'Go!'

Miller and Monroe surge to their feet as a hard hand presses between her shoulder blades, pushing her down.

The weight of Bellamy's arm comes down on her back, his heat seeping down the length of her left side as he pulls her into him. He's half-hunched over her, arm covering her head from any falling debris.

'Stay low.' Bellamy instructs in her ear.

Clarke obeys, ducking as far as she can go even though her breath is coming in short, shallow gasps now and she's fighting panic now. She's been exposed for too long now and her throat is closing up against the smoky air.

Bellamy's hand is on her, guiding her as they follow Miller and Jasper down the stairs and through the lower level. Then the carpet under her feet turn into wood accompanied by the slap of brisk Arkadian air, melts into concrete and finally, road.

Her first breath of fresh stings her lungs and Clarke's body tightens as a racking cough finally breaks through, shaking her. The fingers on her neck release their bite and slide down her back, rubbing in slow circles as she remains bowed over, still coughing, the black tarseal of the road blurring through smoke-stung eyes.

'Easy.' Bellamy's voice says, grit a comfort, 'You're okay.'

Then a light weight drops around her shoulders, embracing her in warmth that smells like Bellamy, rich and dark. Clarke grasps the edges of the jacket, pulling it tighter around her without thinking, wrapping herself up in a scent she's too distracted to realise she associates with safety.

'I got her.' Harper's voice says.

The fingers on her back press into her flesh before they're replaced with smaller fingers. Bellamy's presence disappears from her side, already calling orders to his team.

Cinda.

When Harper tries to slip an oxygen mask over her nose, Clarke resists, trying to peer around the firefighter to get a better look at Cinda, now on a stretcher, Monty already working on her.

'Clarke,' Monty calls warningly, sparing her a glance, 'take the damn oxygen.'

Still wheezing, she glares but grasps for the mask, ignoring Harper's smirk, because Monty can't afford to be distracted right now. She's feeling a little sheepish over her stubbornness because the oxygen does help and she waves Harper away as she moves to sit on the floor of the open ambo back.

Had it been any other paramedic, she'd be hovering but Monty is more than capable and she'd just be in the way.

The original scene of the fire has been put out and in the distance Truck and Squad have already stamped out the fire at Cinda's. She can see Bellamy, the only figure missing his turnout jacket, suspenders bright against the sweat darkened grey of his t-shirt.

Clarke tugs his jacket even tighter around her, too exhausted to bother fighting the urge, and looks for Ethan. The moment she locks eyes with the boy, he tears free of Kane's steady grasp and goes for her. She lifts an arm and he burrows into her side.

She tugs down the mask. 'You okay?'

He gives her wide worried eyes and a nod. 'Is my mom going to be alright?'

'I hope so, honey.' she whispers, wrapping fingers around his shoulder, 'But that paramedic helping her? That’s Monty Green and he's one of the best in the entire city.'

Proving her words true, Monty manages to revive Cinda enough that she lifts a weak hand to cup her son's face when he appears at her side. Clarke watches as, with Jasper and Raven's help, they move Cinda into the ambo, Ethan scrambling in after her.

Her neck prickles.

She doesn't turn as Bellamy comes up to stand beside her.

He smells like smoke and sweat now, and Clarke closes her eyes briefly, nostalgia an throb in her belly as her memories of earlier, of her tears in the ambo, come flooding back.

Bellamy. Gina. Vulcan. Venus. Everything bleeding and blending into each in a tumultuous storm of colour and emotions.

The throb becomes a knife.

But she can handle it.

She's fine.

'Thank you for turning up when you did.' she says politely, not looking at him. 'You and Miller were right on time.'

He shifts, clearing his throat, not replying at first and she gets the feeling that he's trying to find words. She'd be amused at the fact that he's being careful around her but…well, frankly everything about Bellamy hurts right now.

'How're you feeling?' he finally says, a soft rumble that settles into her bones to warm her.

She has never heard him use that tone with her before.

At least, not while awake.

'I'm fine.'

'Good.' he says softly, shifting again on his feet, 'That's good.'

Something has changed with him.

She doesn't know what exactly but he _feels_ softer, deeper, gentler to her.

Something has changed but the truth is, Clarke is too drained to think about it, too drained to try and figure it out, too drained to care. It's a little awkward, more than a little strange and Clarke has had enough.

She doesn't care.

She doesn't.

She turns, lifting a shoulder so that his jacket slips off and - the edges of her vision goes dark.

No, she begs frantically, willing the air to stop shimmering.

No, no, no, not here, not -

_‘I’m alright, Vulcan.’ she whispers again, fingers fisting in his hair._

_‘When you did not return, I -,’ his mouth works against her neck as he swallows, ‘I cannot think of a time I’ve felt more fear.’_

_‘But I did return.’ she reminds him, ‘I’m right here.’_

_Pushing against his shoulders so that he goes to his back, Venus follows, straddling him. She sinks back down onto him, his heat velvet-hard inside her, and Vulcan shudders under her, his fingers biting into her hips._

_She begins to move, slow and possessive. ‘I’m here.’ When he closes his eyes, she grasps his wrists and digs her nails into his skin, ‘No, Vulcan, look -,’ her voice hitches as he moves deep in her , ‘ – look at me, gods, look at me.’_

_His eyes open, glittering obsidian, and he rasps out, ‘Venus.’_

_‘Yes.’ she whispers, ‘I’m here, right here.’ she takes his hand, presses it between her breasts, ‘Feel my heart beat –‘,_ It beats for you _‘- feel me, husband –,’ a moan as his hips snap up at her words, ‘Vulcan. Fire God. Hailed Blacksmith.’_

_My love. My love. My love._

_It is on her tip of her tongue but she cannot give them yet so she presses his hand harder against her, uses the strength in his arm to anchor her as she rides._

_‘I will always return.’ The vow is torn from her, ‘As long as there is life in my body, I will always return to you.’_

_Vulcan freezes under her as her words hang in the air between them._

_Her eyes snap open._

_What has she done?_

_But before she can shift off him, his hand comes up to cup her cheek. When she meets his gaze, she wonders how eyes so hard could contain such softness._

_‘Almost losing you has taught me well today.’ he says quietly, his voice a thrum under her skin, ‘I will always come for you, Venus. And no god or mortal, nor Death itself can stop me. I will come for you, I will find you, over and over again.’_

_A knot in her chest loosens – a knot that had coiled so tight her head spins with the breath that is breathed back into her body._

_Tell him._

_Say those three words._

_But she can’t, not yet._

_So she drops her eyes, her tears wetting his fingers and kisses his wrist. Vulcan lifts up at that, arms dropping to encircle her hips and band across her back in a hold reminiscent of their wedding night. He lifts his head, eyes holding her captive – so much in his gaze, so much she cannot understand yet -, kisses her._

_And Venus drowns._

_Drowns in his taste, the feel of his lips, the warm slide of his tongue, the bite of his fear._

_She drowns and as he surrounds her in darkness scented with him, with the immovable hold of his arms, with the heat of him hard in her, with the beat of his heart under her fingers, Venus thinks that if this was to be her death, she would go to it willingly._

Clarke surfaces surrounded by Bellamy, her shoulder pressed into his chest, his arm across her back, low on her hips.

Shit, how long was she out?

Based on the ambo in front of her, on Monty still talking to Cinda and Ethan, on the firefighters packing up equipment and loading up their trucks, not long.

She has to force herself away from the clinging tendrils of the vision because _you're an asset_ and _that's the only reason he came after you_. She pushes against Bellamy, her feet finding purchase.

His arms loosen slightly, breath soft in her ear, ‘Clarke –‘

‘Just a little light-headed from the smoke.’ she says stiffly, eyes down, as she shrugs him off gently. 'I'm fine.'

She doesn’t see the way his mouth tightens as she steps away quickly from him, the way his arms drop slowly to his side.

Clarke slips the jacket from her shoulders. The cold rushes in but the chill in her bones is more than just temperature. ‘Thank you for the jacket.’

When his hand comes up to accept his coat, his fingers brush against hers and Clarke yanks her hand away.

She has learnt her lesson.

But she does not see Bellamy's jaw setting at her action, does not see the ache in his eyes when she avoids touching him.

She does not see anything because she can still see Vulcan loving Venus, Bellamy kissing Gina.

How much emotion can a person endure before breaking?

She does not want to find out.

So Clarke climbs into the back of the ambo without another word, without another glance, tucking Ethan into her when he leans against her. She closes her eyes and even though every nerve in her body screams at her to look outside, to look back at the man standing there in the middle of the road, she does not.

Perhaps if she had turned, she would have seen in his eyes the same lingering fear, the same resolution that she had tasted on a god's lips just moments ago.

But she didn't because she didn't look back.

Instead, she goes with Monty to St. Vincent, waves goodbye to Ethan as Cinda is rolled into the ER, and sits as the nurse checks her out and clears her.

When she and Monty return to the house, she opts for a shower and lets the hot spray pound into the nape of her neck, lets it wash away the tang of fire and sweat and confusion and refuses resolutely to think of Bellamy, somewhere in the firehouse, of Gina's laugh muffled by the press of his lips against hers, of the stabbing pain that came with the memory and the wave of betrayal that followed.

It's not her pain.

It never was.

Clarke tells herself this as she tilts her head back and lets the spray wash away the salt that escaped from under her closed lids.

Lets the spray wash away the last remnants of Bellamy's scent from her skin.

She needs to let it go now, Clarke thinks as she steps out of the shower, let it all - Bellamy and Vulcan - go.

Bellamy has chosen and she has no right to be hurt - not when he owes her nothing, not with the way things are between them.

This is reality and the best thing to do right now is stay out of Bellamy's way to safe-guard herself.

But then Clarke opens her locker to throw her dirty clothes in and from her duffel bag peeks the edge of a manila folder.

Nausea and a burning ache in her belly rushes back in flood and _shit, shit, shit, I can't avoid him now_.

Anything that has happened since Cage laid that file in her hand hasn't changed - even if it felt like the world had been a different place since she jogged out into that hallway and seen Gina at the end of it.

Bellamy is still in danger and she needs to tell him now.

Things still haven't changed but what if -

For a brief second, Clarke's fingers hesitate over the folder, thinks of shoving it to the back of her locker to await a day she can deal with it.

But she can't because if she does, that day will never come. She made herself a promise at the beginning of the day and near death experience or not, she's a woman of her word. It takes everything in her to push aside the earlier call but she's a master of compartmentalization by now.

So Clarke throws back her wet hair, slips out of the bathroom, squares her shoulders and looks for the man she had left on a road outside a smoking house.

She sees him as she is walking down the row of neatly made beds in the sleeping quarters, a shock of tousled black hair and a line of broad shoulders through the open blinds of the door labelled 'Officer's Quarters'.

She swallows, gives the glass a sharp rap with her knuckles.

He doesn't turn around, calls out a curt, 'Yeah.' as he hunches over something on his desk.

Clarke opens the door, hesitates again at the threshold, heart in her throat, file burning her fingertips. 'Hey.'

She's really going to do this.

Bellamy's head comes around sharply, eyebrows shooting up as he takes her in, standing in the doorway of his private quarters.

He swivels fully around in his chair, and leans back, tapping a pen against his thigh. The lines on his face are - wary.

No.

Cautious?

Why is he all of a sudden being careful and cautious around her when not too long ago, he was being a dick?

'Everything okay, Griffin?'

That's new too.

Her stomach is rioting, her mouth dry, her palms are sweating and her fingers turn cold as they clutch the manila folder even harder. 'I need to talk to you.'

She wants to run out of that room and never look back.

Bellamy's brows draw down slightly. Clearing his throat, he nods once, throwing his pen on the desk and waving her in. 'Come on in then.'

Does he have to be so civil?

A fine thing she's going to do - dump shitty news on the man who had just saved her life again.

She steps in.

Stops as she looks around.

Come in where?

It's a small room, just enough for a single bed and a desk. Another two steps forward and her hips will be inches from his face.

Shit, don't think about _that_.

'Well, sit down.' Bellamy says dryly.

Sit where?

Clarke looks around again for a second chair.

There's none.

Her eyes land on the only flat surface she could presently sit on.

Bellamy's bed.

She stares at the tidily made surface, the dark blue blanket, the white pillows, the file in her hand momentarily forgotten.

Without volition, an image slides into her brain: Bellamy sleeping on his belly, arm hanging carelessly off the side, blanket twisted around his hips, back bare to the night air and her fingertips trailing up his spine.

Don't think about _that_ either, silly girl.

'Shit.'

Her eyes dart to Bellamy who's staring at the bed too. His eyes close, his shoulders moving on an indrawn breath and his fingers come up to press into the bridge of his nose.

'Just sit, will you?' he says roughly.

Heat in her cheeks, Clarke sinks to sit at edge of his bed.

Bellamy studies her silently for a moment then he laughs shortly, rubbing a hand across his face, muttering something under his breath.

'What?' Clarke asks, defensive.

'You wanted to talk?' Bellamy evades smoothly and she's effectively distracted.

She stares at the folder in her hands. Then, slowly, heart beat a drumline, she sucks in a breath and offers it to him.

Bellamy leans forward, forearms on thighs, eyes on her trembling hand. 'Fuck.' he mutters, lips twisting briefly, 'I'm not going to like what's in there, am I?'

She shakes her head slowly. 'Bellamy, I'm so sorry.'

At her whisper, his head cocks, teeth glinting briefly as they sink into his bottom lip. His eyes study her and this time she doesn't shy away from his gaze, doesn't try to control her reaction because she needs him to know how sorry she is.

'Alright.' Bellamy finally says and reaches out, long fingers taking the file from her.

He flips it open, scans the first page and the corners of his eyes tighten. The silence extends as Bellamy turns to the next page, studies it briefly, turns to the next. Then to the next. And the next. And the next, his expression never changing, until he's closing the file. He doesn't say anything, just leans back into his chair, fingers rubbing his mouth, eyes on the ground, jaw tight.

He doesn't say anything but the energy around his large frame simmers into something angry, dark and suffocating.

She wishes he could look up at her, wishes he could say something, wishes she could express just how sorry she is, wishes she could ask him not to hate her.

'Bellamy,' she calls quietly when she can't take the oppressive quiet anymore, 'I'm so sor -'

'Did you read it?' he asks, still not looking at her.

'No.'

'Why not?'

Her mouth opens but she doesn't know what to say. 'Bellamy -'

'My mother was a sex worker.' he says bluntly.

She had seen the test-results on the first page so she knows. But she has the uneasy feeling that's she going to know a lot more.

'She did it because she had a kid at sixteen, a dead husband at eighteen and a debt she couldn’t repay alone on a waitress salary.' Bellamy continues tonelessly, 'She was a good designer, a better seamstress, but her first job,' his eyes finally come up and Clarke freezes when the rage in his face seems to be aimed at her, 'fucked her over. But she was young, beautiful and determined so she made it work. She wasn't perfect but that's who she was.'

'It's nothing to be asha -'

Bellamy laughs shortly. 'I'm not saying exploitation isn't real because it is. But there are also women who choose to go into sex work purely for business. Willingly. That’s nothing to be ashamed of either. But you think I'm ashamed of my mother because she did what she had to to kept me warm and fed?'

Well, at least they're on the same page. But -

'Then,' Clarke says carefully, 'why are you explaining?'

An emotion crosses his face, too quick for her to read, before his face goes blank again.

'You care about me, Clarke?' His question is soft, mocking and derisive .

This is the Bellamy from before, the Bellamy she encountered on her first day.

Even as her cheeks warm and dread forms a ball in her stomach, her spine goes ramrod straight. 'What sort of question is that?'

'You worry about me getting dismissed?' he taunts, 'Don't you wanna know who it is you're worried about?

'Bellamy -'

He flips open the folder, holds up a sheet of paper. She only needs a cursory glance to know what it was.

'Shoplifting.' he says, 'I was thirteen and the store owner let me get off with a warning. Bad mistake.'

Her mouth opens but again, she can't speak.

Another sheet of paper, 'Car boosting.' he continues easily, 'I was fifteen.' Another sheet. 'Possession of stolen property. Sixteen.'

'I get it.'

'Criminal trespass.' he says, ignoring her, 'Sixteen - shit, that was a busy year.'

'Bellamy. Stop.'

'Oh, look, here's one from when I was seventeen.' he holds up yet another sheet, 'Loitering. Actually,' his brow rises challengingly, 'we were selling but no one's gonna tell the cops that.'

She stares at him, silent.

'Seventeen.' he says quietly, finally closing the file, 'Resisting arrest. Assault and Battery.'

There's a story there, a story behind those charges. Behind that last one and it's a story that turns his eyes haunted.

'There you go, Clarke.' he says, leaning back, tapping the folder against his thigh, 'That's me. The real me.' he smirks, bitter, 'Still think people need me in this world?

He made mistakes.

But she cannot believe that the man who continued to save lives everyday, who has saved her despite himself, who a house of rowdy firefighters and a paramedic loved - she cannot believe that man isn't who Bellamy is at heart.

'What did you steal?'

His brows draw down in confusion. 'What?'

'You said you were caught shoplifting at thirteen.' Clarke reminds him. 'What did you steal?'

Bellamy's jaw worked. 'Panadol.'

'Because Octavia was sick.' she guesses.

He doesn't answer but she knows she was right.

'And how many,' she asks slowly, 'of those,' she nods at the file in his lap, ' had nothing to do with your mom or sister?'

His eyes narrow. 'Doesn't matter why I -'

'Yes, it does.' she pushes. 'Not saying it excuses what you did. Just - it matters, at least to me, it does.' Then when he shifts in his seat, when he looks away, 'If you're trying to scare me, it's not working.' she continues flatly. 'I have eyes, a fully functioning brain and - despite what you think - a heart. I know that that boy who'd do anything for his family is still the man you are.'

Bellamy leans back, watches her as his own face registers a myriad of emotions that she cannot read.

That feeling of the wind changing, the feeling that she had shied away from earlier, courses through her veins again and Clarke tries not to shudder.

Then he laughs, low and deep, the sound like distant thunder and Clarke wonders if she's imagining the helpless acceptance in it, the surrender.

Bellamy tilts his head back, rubbing his face. 'Shit, I'm fucked.'

'What?' she asks sharply.

The words had come muffled through a low groan and she's not sure if she heard right.

'I said, ' he lowers his arms, blows out a breath but he's not meeting her eyes. 'Cage can get fucked.'

She's not entirely sure she believes him but they have other things to worry about.

'I've already told him that and I don't think he appreciated it.'

Bellamy snorts, rolls his shoulders. 'Wish I'd been there to see that.'

'You almost were, actually.' Clarke confesses to her own surprise. She fists her fingers to stop them from fidgeting when Bellamy's eyes lift to hers, 'It was this morning. Right before you arrived.'

With Gina.

He doesn't reply straight away and when she glances at him, she has the unsettling feeling that Bellamy is reading every emotion that washes through her.

'Clarke -'

'What do you think we should do?' she barrels on, heartbeat a spooked deer.

Silence.

' _We_?' Bellamy repeats softly, cocking his head, gaze intent.

'You think I'm going to let you deal with this alone?'

He presses his lips together, still studying her with that unnerving direct stare that saw way too much. ''Course you won't.' he murmurs but before that could sink into her brain, he drops his gaze to his boots. 'Kane knows.'

Clarke blinks, thrown. 'Pardon?'

'This.' he lifts the file before twisting at the waist to throw it on the desk behind him. 'Kane knows. Hell,' he grimaces, 'he knows more than what's in there.'

His gaze is clear, direct and he meets her own without flinching. In fact, Bellamy looks the picture of ease if it weren't for the tightness around his eyes, navy AFD t-shirt, white bandage peeking from under one sleeve, legs cocked casually.

'Makes great blackmail material.' Bellamy murmurs, sardonic smile.

'That's not funny.' she snaps, his words hitting too close to home.

His brow arches at the sharpness in her voice and he raises his hands. 'Easy, just a joke.'

'A joke that could see you stripped of your title or shoved away to a non-descript house somewhere else?'

Her tone is sharp, much too sharp but shit - she should have never come to 82, she should have stayed away. She should have remembered that everything she loves, she destroys. She should have -

'Whoa, hey.' Bellamy leans forward, voice turning hard, 'Whatever you're thinking, step back from it.'

Her eyes flick to him in surprise and then slide away because she can’t hold his gaze without guilt flooding her.

'You haven't filed your report yet, have you?' she says, evading him.

'Just finishing it up now.' Bellamy replies warily, 'Why?' When she turns to him, his eyes shift across her features and he starts shaking his head before she could even open her mouth, 'No. I'm not -'

'You don't have a choice.' Clarke tells him, 'You have to take Cage's offer.'

'The fuck I do.' he growls.

'Bellamy, _we don’t have a choice_.'

She's pleading him now because she can be honest enough to say that she can't imagine an 82 without him.

And at her words, Bellamy's features gentle.

It might be fanciful, but Clarke could almost swear that the pull, that bond, vibrates in the air between them.

She ignores it and keeps her gaze on Bellamy.

He doesn't reply but he doesn’t have to, she knows he understands.

Clarke stands and is already halfway out the door when she stops to look at him over her shoulder.

'Yes.' she says as Bellamy straightens in his seat, ghosts in his eyes, 'In case, I wasn't clear enough earlier. Yes, I still think people need you in this world.'

_I need you. I might be fighting it, but I need you here._

She realises how ironic things have turned out - her planning to stay away from him only for fate to make it twice as hard to do so.

Her plans suck.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to the Anon who pointed it out and to [ hooksandheroics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics) who provided a heavily caffeinated fic writer with the Tagalog translation in the midst of study and at 1:28am - bellarke fam y'all :D She's an awesome fic writer in her own right so go check out her work!!


	3. Oh But My Darling (What If You Fly?): 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 2
> 
> (See? I keep my promises *shifty eyes*)

****

Clarke wonders if you can call a moment such as this an epiphany.

'You're totally still thinking about it.' Monty teases as he cuts the engine.

She refuses to blush. 'It's…intriguing.' she confesses, hopping out of the ambo and rounding the hood to join Monty. 'You don't think so?'

Her partner pauses, thoughtful. 'I guess. I've never really thought about it.' he lifts a shoulder, 'Maybe with the right person, I could go for it.' he glances at her and grins, 'You - you’re into it though.'

She debates denying it but, well, it's _Monty_ and he's one of the most open-minded people she's ever met. And considering the people that make up 82, that's saying something.

'I think the idea of trusting someone enough to give up control is beautiful.' she finally says as they walk into the firehouse, 'I mean, to let go - to _really_ let go - you have to got have a lot of trust in your partner. Letting yourself be that vulnerable is its own kind of strength, right?' she bites her lip, 'And honestly, the idea of being able to just let go and know that you're still safe? It's kind of liberating.'

'Yeah.' Monty says quietly, 'Yeah. BDSM gets a lot of flak but if you look at it that way - yeah, you're right.'

'Damn Fifty Shades.' she mutters.

Monty snorts.

When they had responded to the call-out, Clarke had thought nothing of it, even after walking into a scene that screamed _coitus interruptus_ and noting the velvet ropes dangling from the headboard. Couples experimented all of the time - it wasn't anything shocking.

It wasn't until Meryl, the victim, revived out of a faint by her partner before she and Monty got there, said wryly, 'Seven years as a professional Dom and he looks like he's about to freak out.' that Clarke gets the nature of their relationship.

'You _fainted_.' her partner had said hoarsely and Clarke notices for the first time how pale he was, 'Of course I'm freaking the fuck out.'

Meryl's face had gentled so sweetly that Clarke ducked her head and concentrated on monitoring her vitals.

Monty had given her some light medication and a firm warning to eat - which Meryl explained sheepishly that she had forgotten to do in the first place. When they left, her partner was asking Meryl quietly if she felt like a roast beef sandwich.

Clarke had gotten her first real glimpse of a B/D relationship, a relationship whose dynamic showed her in twenty minutes what years of media couldn't. It made her think and the thought of a trust in someone so strong that she can give up control during a time of vulnerability, knowing she has nothing to fear and the freedom that came with that knowledge - that thought was poignant and powerful.

She has never encountered trust like that before, not with her previous partners. Not with Reily, Sam or Tomasina. Not with Finn. And not with Lexa, although they were still in their early stages, still casual-ish because of their clashing shifts and heavy responsibilities, so who knows.

So Clarke hasn't encountered that level of trust.

A trust as explicit as the trust Venus has in Vulcan.

With that whisper still echoing in her mind, Clarke follows Monty towards the closed door of firehouse.

She's been basically living Venus' sex life in her head for what feels like too long now and from what she has seen, Venus and Vulcan have not done anything that Clarke wouldn't have been comfortable with.

Clarke hasn't done anything in particular that would be described as kinky before. The thought had crossed her mind but, well. So she stored away her curiosity and hell, its not like there's a lot of chances to try out new things and a multitude of partners she can trust -

Through the cut-out glass section of the firehouse door, Bellamy crosses the floor of the common room before disappearing again.

A flash of heat licks into her belly as she's caught unaware by the sight of him.

Her tattoo flares hot and her vision blurs.

Well, at least Monty is already inside so he wouldn’t have to be privy to this, Clarke thinks before she leans into the wall outside and braces.

_She finds him in the crowd, dark hair gleaming under the Roman sun._

_He's talking to a man, powerfully built with a blacksmith's apron tied around his thick waist. Venus slows as she nears them, unseen, her lips curving as she watches Vulcan throw his head back in a laugh._

_His face, slashing features and sensual mouth, is dappled by the sunlight peeking through the roofs of the surrounding stalls and the shadows shift across his cheekbones and lips. Venus remembers the feel of that wide mouth against her own and the heat in the humid air increases ten-fold._

_She brushes back the light cloth covering her hair, letting it fall behind her to drape over her elbows. She slips under the shade of an awning and keeps to the meager shadows it provides, continuing to watch her husband._

_The man twists at the waist, hefting a spear and handing to Vulcan, who spins it in his hands. They are nimble and deft and Venus can't stop the fluttering in her stomach as she watches his long fingers move across the handle._

_His eyes caress the spear head, veined arms a deep bronze against the white of his sleeveless tunic, long legs bared by its short length, the scars on his leg silver against his dark skin. He is so beautiful, it hurts her throat to look at him._

_Then Vulcan's head comes up as he speaks, his gaze drifts past the man in front of him and finds her._

_His eyes widen._

_She smiles._

_Venus knows he would not expect to see her there but she couldn't resist when her attendant relayed to her Vulcan's message earlier that morning. She had held off as long as she could before giving in. She tells herself that it was curiosity - what business could the Fire God have in the mortal realm? - but the truth is, she missed him._

_Vulcan's eyes turn soft midnight when she steps into the sun._

_She puts more sway into her hips than she would normally use, lifts an arm to sweep her hair to drape over a shoulder, baring the other to him and her smile turns catlike when his gaze sharpens into obsidian._

_Heat gathers under her skin and anticipation coils tight in her belly._

_He stops talking as she nears and the other blacksmith has turned to see what had captured his companion's attention. She nods at the blacksmith in acknowledgment, meets Vulcan's gaze and holds it. His brow arches when he realises she wasn't going to stop._

_Dark humor and hot desire flash across her husband's face before she lowers her gaze and moves past the men, avoiding brushing against Vulcan purposely._

_She doesn't go far, lingering at stalls, making her way slowly through the crowd and circling back. Through her entire journey, she can feel Vulcan watching her. She glances over her shoulder and his eyes narrow warningly._

_She turns, frowns at the puddle in front of her in mock thought. Gathering the material of her dress in one hand, she bunches enough of it in her fist to flash a glimpse of thigh as she hops over._

_The quick display of flesh goes unnoticed by the milling crowd._

_Her husband, however, had definitely noticed, judging by the exasperated quirk of his lips and the taut line of his jaw._

_The blacksmith claps Vulcan on the back with a laugh and grips his forearm in farewell and she begins to move deeper into the crowd. Vulcan's presence at her back is a heavy, warm weight and she drops her shawl to the ground, glancing over her shoulder to throw him a challenging smile._

_He is several stalls away, the distance between them filled with people and when his gaze move from her bared shoulders to her face, he shakes his head, humour sparkling in his eyes even as they heat._

_Why he has such an affixation on her shoulders, Venus will never know, but she has no complaints._

_She weaves and ducks in the crowd, Vulcan following, gaining and falling back with the crowd and she swears she even heard him curse under his breath once. It makes her laugh but her blood is rushing now. She slips behind a stall just as he gains on her and his fingers brush the inside of her right wrist before men and women foil him again, his snarl rolling through the humid air._

_The heat of his fingers sear up her arm, even after they have left her skin, and the desire smoldering low in her roars to full-blooded life. Her breath catches, jerking her to a stop as the feeling washes over her like summer rain._

_That - that single touch, that brush of fingers to her wrist - was her undoing, her downfall and a hand, hard and familiar, reclaims hers._

_Finally, caught, Venus doesn't try to run again and as Vulcan begins cutting through the melee, the crowd parting before him, she follows, heart pounding. A part of her wants to run, wants more of the chase but she's not going to deny herself- or him- any longer._

_He leads her deep into twisting narrow lanes, dim cobbled paths and urgency builds, builds, builds. They're almost running now and she doesn't know where they're going but she'll follow this man anywhere._

_Then Vulcan is pulling her into a shadowy alcove, almost obscured by hanging ivy. It's only when she sees scuffed dark wood and the gleam of heavy brass hoops that she realises they're sequestered in a doorway. In the dark, he crowds her into the corner, presses her back into the cool brick and his hand fists in her hair, his mouth coming down on hers. Venus arches into his kiss, digging her fingers into his arms._

_He tastes like desperation and she can't get enough of him._

_He kisses her until her head starts to spin, until her heart is hammering in her chest and she can't think anymore. She grips his waist, pulling him harder against her and swallows his groan. His hands fist at her hips, begins to wrench up the flimsy fabric._

_She tears her mouth away, gasping. 'Here?'_

_'Now.' he corrects harshly._

_Hot, rough hands cup the back of her thighs, lifting her and Venus laughs, a husky breathless sound that has his hands clenching around her flesh. She winds her arms around his neck and dips her chin to kiss him._

_He holds her against brick with the press of his body to hers, her legs around his waist. This time, it is he who swallows her moans as his fingers find her, willing and wet, as they slip into her liquid heat, as they stroke the fire in her until she's trembling and shaking and had he had not been kissing her, she would have been pleading._

_When he finally drives into her, their low intermingled groans echo in the darkened alcove._

_'Venus.' he says, low and rough and through the haze of lust, she hears the warning._

_Murmuring voices suddenly sound and they both still, breathing harsh. The voices come closer, the murmur turning into words, and three ladies pass outside, laughing and chattering and completely oblivious. Their backs are not completely out of sight when Vulcan begins to move, his mouth at her throat, her thighs spread across his forearms and Venus sinks her teeth into his shoulder to muffle her moan._

_He moves , deep and fast, and she feels her belly tightening, feels the coil of release getting tighter, lightning on her skin._

_More voices._

_Her wide eyes dart to the sunlit street, sees the couple as they stroll into sight, moving slowly, much too slowly._

_She tastes Vulcan on her tongue, her lips tingling and bruised from his kiss, feels him hard and heavy in her, his scent and heat surrounding her and, gods help her, she cannot hold it in much longer._

_'Vulcan.' she gasps._

_He lifts his head, turns it to see the couple on the street, now stopping, the woman laughing, a mere stone's throw from where they were hidden._

_Vulcan turns back to her, his eyes glazed and blurry and she cannot help the response of her body at the sight of him. The cords in his neck strain as she tightens around him and he hitches her higher so he can drive deeper into her._

_'Let go, Venus.' he bites out, quiet and harsh._

_'Vulcan.'_

_He doesn't understand that she won't be able to remain silent for long._

_'Let go.' he growls._

_'I - I need -'._

_She stops trying to explain - who cares if they're found?_

_Then a flash of understanding sharpens Vulcan's eyes, his hand comes up to press against her lips as his body and his snarl vibrates into her flesh. 'Now, wife.'_

_Her body obeys and shatters, held together only by his arms, by his strength, by his groan of her name as she clenches around him, her teeth sinking into the palm of his hand. And as she does, Vulcan follows, his heat flooding her, his body jerking into hers, shuddering as he muffles his own groan into the side of her neck._

_Outside, the couple slowly moves past._

_In the shadows of the alcove, they stand, leaning into each other, trembling, trying to catch their breath._

_'Jupiter save us both.' Vulcan mutters._

_She starts laughing and feels him smile into the crook of her neck. She tightens her arms around his shoulders as he lowers her gently until her feet touches solid ground. She's still laughing when he presses his mouth to hers._

_He doesn't kiss her and they just stand there, smiling lips touching, two gods walking amongst mortals, huddled in the cool shadowy quiet, hidden from the thick gold heat of the Roman sun._

Clarke rises from the vision slowly, sweat turning cold on her brow, the sound of cars and Arkadian city life building steadily in her ears.

Despite the ache in her chest - hell, she misses Vulcan, misses him with a hurt that shouldn't exist - she chokes out a laugh.

Semi-public sex crossed off the bucket list then.

She never thought it'll be a kink of hers but hey, there you go.

Staggering to her feet, Clarke leans against the door, and stumbles in. Taking deep breaths to steady herself, she emerges from the dark of the hallway, heading towards the common room.

Bellamy's occupying one of the seats of the sofas, Murphy and Monroe taking up the other seats, and the tinny sound of cheering and a sport commentator's excitement babbles from the TV.

The first head to turn her way was Bellamy's and - great, now she trying to pretend her skin didn't just flush hot.

Don't think about it.

_About what?_ her mind asks wryly, _the fact that you two had sex against the wall of someone's else's house where anyone could have walked past - hell, did walk past? Or the fact that now you're missing him and unsure whether you're missing Vulcan or Bellamy?_

_Shut up,_ she snaps. _Venus and Vulcan. Not Bellamy and I._

The laughter in her mind is mocking.

When her eyes come back up, she finds Bellamy's gaze still firmly on her as he sprawls out casually on his seat, knees cocked, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. His brows rise as he looks her over.

Dark eyes flicks down her body before rising, his jaw rippling.

Her skin, still sensitive from Vulcan's touch, tightens.

It's got to be her overactive imagination because that couldn't have been interest she saw but she meets Bellamy's gaze as it reaches her face again and hell -

She's been at 82 for a while now, she would have thought the jolt she gets every time she finds his eyes unexpectedly would have faded by now.

But no, it's still there, still sending heat licking up her spine, still squeezing her heart with a whisper of ' _Remember_.'

Remember what?

'You planning on standing there all day?'

Clarke starts at Murphy's dry tone.

The spell broken, Bellamy turns towards the other firefighter, shoves his shoulder roughly and Murphy chuckles darkly.

Clarke only then notices that Monty had already passed the sofas to drop into an open seat at the small rounded table behind Bellamy, his gaze amused.

Cheeks hot, she quickly joins her partner.

It's been a week since she had given Bellamy the file. He hasn't brought it up again and everything went back to normal. The new normal for them, anyways, which consisted of a fragile, strange alliance and bantering and bickering instead of full blown spats.

And since last week, Bellamy has been…different. He's still an asshole but his words don't seem to have the barbs they did before. She's wary of the change for too many reasons - because they had been there before and that didn’t last long - but he's starting to become the kind of asshole she can be fond of.

She's trying - really trying - to keep a distance but she also has the sinking feeling she's fighting a losing battle.

She's relieved to be sure but the first time Bellamy smiled at her without rancour, she had dropped her mug.

The mug survived.

Her toe still hurts.

'Call go okay?' Raven asks as she drops into the other open chair.

'Yeah.' Monty yawns, 'Just a fainting spell during some light bondage play.'

Raven's brow arches. 'Oh, is that all?'

Monty's yawn turns into a laugh.

'Hey, Clarke,' Monroe calls, 'some guy kept calling for you when you were out.'

_What?_ is her first thought, followed swiftly by, _Please don't let it be Cage. Or, god forbid, not -_

'It wasn't Finn.' Raven confides in a low voice, eyes on her, grin sharp.

Clarke slides her a dry smile.

'Oooh,' Murphy straightens, 'are we finally going to hear about this elusive significant other?'

'Shut up, Murphy.' Bellamy growls.

Clarke's eyes dart to the back of Bellamy's head and although he doesn't turn around, the line of his shoulders is now stiff.

It reminds her of her first day at the station and Bellamy's warning to deal with her personal life off the clock. He might not know she's dating Lexa but Clarke knows that he, like the rest of the house, is aware that she is seeing someone, thanks to Raven.

Raven, whose eyes dart to Bellamy, returns to Clarke and - why does she suddenly look smug?

Clarke ignores her friend and throws at Murphy, 'No, you’re not.' Ignoring his theatrical groan, she instead turns to Monroe, 'Did he leave a name or a message?'

'I think Fox said Palmer?'

Monty straightens like a shot and he sends Clarke a significant look.

Maternity Ward Palmer? Despite herself, she had been visiting the Maternity Ward and Monty had even accompanied her even though it was against his better judgment. But this - Palmer actually calling her work place -that was different.

'Clarke.'

She looks up at Monty and the warning is clear in his face. 'Please.' she whispers. 'What if something's wrong?'

Raven remains silent. She knows the story, had warned Clarke about getting too attached. But she also knows that Clarke is stubborn and has chosen to keep her peace.

Clarke sends Monty a pleading look but she knows his silence means he's thinking about it which means, he's breaking. As she knew he would, Monty wants to know too.

'Fine.' Monty finally gives in and when she flashes him a smile, lifts a hand warningly, 'But this has got to be the last time, okay?' his eyes fill with regret, 'You know you're not supposed to be doing this.'

Damn it.

But she knows Monty is right, knows that she has taken it too far, further than she meant to in the first place.

'Clarke?' Monty stands firm, 'Promise me.'

Haltingly, she nods. 'Promise.' The back of her eyes burn and she powers through it. 'This is the last time.'

Away from the common room, she and Monty crowd around the payphone located at the end of the hallway to the sleeping quarters. When the call connects, she asks for Palmer. A minute later, his voice comes through the tiny speaker of the handle she cradles between herself and Monty.

'Clarke?'

Her partner leans in. 'And Monty.'

'Hey guys!' Palmer laughs, 'Sorry I had to get you at work, I had no other way to contact you guys. I have some news you might interested in about your baby girl.'

She and Monty exchange a glance as hope cautiously blooms.

'Oh?' Monty's voice is steady, 'Good news?'

'Probably the best we could hope for.' Palmer's grin comes clear through the line, 'Her mother's cousin turned up a while back. Started crying the moment she picked baby up. The paperwork's complete, Child Services vetted her and everything. It was a bit of gut punch 'cause we miss her, but it looks like your girl's going to a good home.'

Monty laughs, a relief filled sound and his hand comes up to squeeze Clarke's shoulder.

'That's good.' Clarke manages past the lump in her throat, 'That's really good.'

There's a little sadness, sharp and salty on her tongue but the relief is bone-deep and warm and Clarke's smile is wide and true, even if it trembled a little.

'Just thought you two would like to know.'

'We do.' Monty says through a grin of his own, 'Thanks man.'

'No problem.'

When they disconnect, Clarke practically jumps into Monty's arms, shoving her face into his neck and laughing into his shoulder as he swings in her in a circle. Euphoria is a heady rush and adds to the feeling of the world spinning.

Monty sets her back down on her feet and leans in, pressing his forehead against hers and she's laughing under her breath, her arms around his shoulders.

'Finally.' she says, giddy with relief, 'Finally, something is turning out right.'

A throat clears and electricity crackles in the air.

Monty lets her go, moving away to reveal Bellamy standing behind him.

His eyes move between them and Clarke doesn't bother to censure her expression and she grins, big and bright, at him.

Somewhat to her surprise, Bellamy's lips quirk, a ghost of a smile, in response.

'Hate to interrupt,' he rumbles, 'but Kane wants to see us in his office.'

'Us?' Monty repeats.

'Clarke and I.' Bellamy clarifies and eyes returning to Clarke, 'Us.'

Another reminder of that alliance between them.

Us.

There's a click in her head as the peculiar feeling of another piece of her sliding into place sends goose-bumps erupting down her arms. Tearing her eyes away, Clarke remembers what happened the last time she felt this and rubs her arms, praying she doesn't go into another vision.

'You guys are an 'us' now?' Monty murmurs, breaking into her thoughts, and grunts when she elbows him in the side.

Although his face remains blank, Bellamy's eyes drop and his mouth moves in a way Clarke knows means he's biting the inside of his cheek.

Probably to stop himself from snarling.

'Okay.' she steps forward quickly before Bellamy decides to acknowledge Monty's ribbing after all. She pinches her partner's arm lightly, 'See you later.'

She falls into step next to Bellamy as they walk down the hallway and the only sound is the tap of their boots against the tiled floor.

That and the buzzing under her skin at his closeness.

She stops herself from jumping away when Fox passes them, nose buried in her day planner, and Bellamy steps sideways into Clarke instead of in front of her. The length of his arm presses into hers for a split second before he resumes his original distance. Although his step hadn't hitched, Clarke had almost stopped walking at the feel of his skin against hers, hot and firm.

The dreams and visions haven't stopped and they were a constant presence at the back of her mind, but she's getting better at fighting them back. For the last few days, she's noticed that they only came when she was asleep or caught completely unaware. She also noticed that their strength coincided with her interactions with Bellamy.

And she has a feeling that that barely there skin against skin brush, that second where the scent of him washed over her, is going to set her back the ground she gained on fighting them back.

She sneaks a glance at him. His profile is relaxed but - that muscle jumping in his jaw is distracting because no one should have a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and -

_Stop it, Griffin,_ she hisses at herself, _what is wrong with you?_

Maybe it's time to do something about this. The visions aren't going away, burying her head in the sand isn't helping her any, and if she continues like this...shit, he has a girlfriend and she has - well, she and Lexa hadn't had the 'what am I to you' conversation - but she had someone.

'You okay?' Bellamy asks suddenly.

She swallows the croak and nods. 'Yeah.'

At least her voice is steady even if her hands aren't.

'You and Monty, back there.' Bellamy says, head turning to her briefly, 'Everything good?'

Everything else forgotten for a brief, glorious moment, Clarke grins. 'Great, actually. We got some good news.'

She hesitates against saying more. But she thinks of Bellamy gentling towards her since the day she gave him the file, thinks of this unspoken agreement between them. Thinks that Bellamy didn't have to make small talk, didn't have to ask but he did. And didn't that mean he was trying?

Clarke's wary, still heart-sore over Bellamy's earlier treatment of her and the last time they broached this subject, he warned her off. But, she also knows that perhaps things have changed a little since then.

She has to work with him and they live the same building and - shouldn't she try too?

'The baby I went to see at the Maternity Ward?' she ventures cautiously and snaps her mouth shut when Bellamy's frame tenses.

Shit, was she wrong to -

'Is she okay?' Bellamy asks.

She continues to watch him carefully before offering, 'We think so. Her aunt came for her.'

Bellamy's shoulders relax and he huffs out a laugh. He slides her another glance just as she turns to him.

_One day_ , she thinks to herself, hurriedly turning back to look straight ahead, _one day, my breath will stop catching and my tattoo will stop warming when I meet his gaze unexpectedly._

They round the corner to the administration area and an admin staff member swerves to miss them, apologising. Clarke doesn't reply because, caught by surprise, she veers off course and straight into Bellamy.

His hands come up to her shoulders to steady her, their heat searing her flesh, and damn it all to hell, who knew walking down a stupid corridor was so dangerous?

'Uh.' Bellamy clears his throat, stepping away from her, 'That's good. About the baby, I mean.'

Again with the stepping away, a tiny hurt part of her says and she chides herself.

Get over it, Griffin.

'Yeah.' she replies quietly.

Then there's no more time to test the boundaries of their truce because Bellamy's knocking on Kane's door and pushing it open.

The first thing she notices is the folder she had given Bellamy, laid open in front of the Chief.

A litany of curses fills her head and any happiness she had felt bleeds out of her bone marrow.

Kane looked up from the file. 'Blake. Griffin. Have a seat.'

Bellamy, being Bellamy, swaggers past the chairs and leans against the window pane. Technically, he's sitting, ass to the window sill, arms folded across his chest, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His head turned, dark eyes on her as she stands in the doorway.

Shit, it absolutely, totally sucked how hot he is.

Clarke slips in, drawing in a breath to calm the riot in her stomach. She remains standing, arms behind her back, too jittery to sit and hopes the Chief let it go. She stares at the papers spread out in front of Kane.

'Looks like Wallace is following through with his threat.' Kane says with a sigh.

'Looks like it.' Clarke agrees. She stops, glances at Bellamy, 'Did you change your report?

Bellamy meets her eyes readily. 'Can't.'

She blinks, almost certain that she was hearing things but no, of course he didn't. 'Did you not see what Cage has against -'

'Yeah, I saw. You don’t gotta remind me what's in that file - I _lived_ it.'

His tone is dry and amused, but the reminder still brings a tightness to her throat.

'Then you need to change -.'

'I'm not changing my report, Clarke.' Bellamy repeats. Then, grin flashing, 'And even if I wanted to, I can't. I already filed it.'

Clarke stares at him in disbelief.

He had still been working on the damn thing when she gave him that file. And he still lodged it.

'Why would you -' she stops, closes her eyes for patience, 'I'm sure you can lodge for an amendment -'

'Yeah?' Bellamy comes to his feet fluidly, 'This place will be over-run by Internal Affairs if they even get a whiff of a request like that.' he shrugs a broad shoulder, 'There's gonna be questions, a shitload of paperwork and I'm really not feeling the hassle.' he takes her in, standing in the middle of the room, and his voice softens, 'He's coming after me, Clarke. I can handle the heat.'

But why does it have to be him handling it?

_Bellamy takes on more blame than he actually owns._

_Bellamy will sacrifice himself so no one else has to._

_Bellamy, who thinks of his body as a tool to help others._

_That's the kind of leader he is, that's the kind of man he is._

Hasn't he handled enough already?

'What if he comes after the house?' she asks, voice rising, as she stalks over to him.

'Then we'll deal with it when it happens.' Bellamy shoots back, folding his arms across his chest and staring her down.

Clarke ignores that his mouth is only a few inches from her own. 'But -'

'You do realise you're asking me to lie?' his eyes narrow, 'On an official document?'

That shuts her up.

'We don't give up our own.' his voice brooks no argument.

'No, you'll just give yourself up.' she throws back at him, frustrated.

His groan is exasperated. 'Stop trying to save me, Clarke.'

'Like that's not what you're doing for me right now?' she folds her arms across her chest and looks away, muttering, 'God, you're stubborn.'

'Stubborn?' Bellamy repeats incredulously, ' _You're_ calling _me_ stubborn?'

'The epitome of stubborn.' she snipes and doesn't give an inch even when she needs to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

'That's a bit rich coming from you.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

'Enough!' Kane barks. He falls back into his chair, fingers rubbing his temple, 'Good god, _sit down_ , the both of you.'

Then as Bellamy steps away from Clarke, glowering, Kane's gaze goes beyond them and he comes to his feet with a look of relief.

Clarke turns just as the door opens to admit a woman, soft midnight skin, close-cropped afro curls, a sapphire silk shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt. Her sharp gaze takes in the scene before her quickly, her lips quirking.

'Indra.' Kane says, rounding his desk. Instead of a handshake, his arms come up to hug her, 'Thanks for coming.'

'Of course.' she murmurs, pulling back to smile at the Chief, 'Never a dull moment at 82.'

Her stilettos put her at Kane's height and they look roughly in the same age range.

'Clarke, this is Indra.' Kane says as the woman leans across to shake Bellamy's hand briefly before clasping Clarke's. Her grip is cool and sure. 'She heads the Intelligence Unit at APD.'

They're involving cops?

For the first time, Clarke notices the gold badge in a black leather case hanging from Indra’s slender neck.

Under normal circumstances, they would be number one on Clarke's speed dial but she's wary of anyone who isn't from 82. She opens her mouth but the door opens again behind Indra.

This time, it's Lincoln's lean bulk slipping into the room.

Suddenly, Clarke feels better about bringing in the cops, a feeling that only intensifies when Lincoln is followed closely by Octavia.

'No.' Bellamy snaps, spinning around to look at Kane, 'No way. When I agreed to bring in APD, it was under the condition that my sister doesn't get involved.'

Octavia ignores him with well oiled practise and throws Clarke a short nod. Unlike the last time, however, there's not a hint of teasing on Octavia's face as she comes in to stand next to her partner.

'You're too close to this, O.' Bellamy warns.

'It's Lincoln's case.' she reassures, lifting her hands up, 'I'm just working intel, that's it.'

Clarke wants to put a hand on Bellamy's arm, to calm the thrumming under his skin and almost does but catches herself just in time. 'Bellamy, we need police officers we can trust.'

'Yeah, that's why Kane reached out to Indra, Clarke.' Bellamy says, his mouth a hard line as he faces off with his sister. ‘That’s why I asked for _Lincoln_.’

'Indra?' Kane asks, wading into the fray quickly.

'Octavia's been briefed.' Indra says crisply as she comes to stand beside Lincoln and Octavia, 'She comes within a foot of the line, I'll pull her off the case and assign Anya to take her place. Anya's raring for a go at Cage and if Octavia screws this up, she's demoted back to beat cop.'

'There are policies against this.' Bellamy says, exasperated, an arm sweeping between him and his sister, 'There has to be - even for your task force.'

'There are.' Indra replies smoothly, 'And we are following them to the letter. Octavia is only assisting and Nyko has been assigned as her new partner. Octavia asked for this. I am inclined to allow it as long as Nyko is on her ass until Lincoln breaks this.'

'And I will.' Lincoln promises, dark eyes glinting.

'You can't expect me to just sit back and watch this go down.’ Octavia says, mouth tight, 'They threatened you, Bell.'

'They threatened my career,' Bellamy interjects, 'not my life.'

'Since when did you become such a stickler for rules?'

'Since my career isn't the only one they can threaten, O!'

'What they going to do? Fire me because I egged my brother's ex's car when I was sixteen?' Octavia snaps back, temper finally breaking free, 'That's the only strike against me because you made sure I didn't get into anything more serious.' her pale eyes turn hard, ‘It's my turn to look out for you.' a muscle ripples in that Blake jawline, 'I’m doing this, Bell, like it or not. You can’t stop me – and that’s not just the Blake talking, it’s the cop.' her green eyes gentle, 'I get you're trying to protect me, big brother. But I'm a Blake who's a cop.'

She makes sense.

Bellamy swallows a snarl, turns towards Clarke, his brow arching.

She lifts a shoulder but she can't reply to his unspoken question.

This was between brother and sister. But Clarke knows which she would prefer even if she won't say it out loud. So, when Bellamy holds her eyes, she pleads silently with him.

Lincoln, Clarke was willing to trust based on Bellamy's faith alone even if she hadn't already instinctively trusted the detective. But Octavia is Bellamy's sister. If there's anyone to assist Lincoln on this - anyone who is beyond a doubt out of Cage's reach and who would go all out for Bellamy - Clarke would rather Octavia than anyone else.

_Please_ , she asks with her eyes, _please_.

Finally, Bellamy's chest expands with an indrawn breath and he nods stiffly, the tension in the room noticeably reducing.

'For the record,' he says, eyes flicking between Indra and Octavia, 'I still don't like this.'

'Duly noted.'

'Alright. Drama dealt with.' Lincoln says wryly into the silence, 'So maybe we can start?'

When Bellamy returns to Clarke's side, sitting on the edge of the Kane's desk, Indra nods.

'How many know about this?' Lincoln asks, 'Outside of the people in this room.'

'Miller.' Bellamy says, 'Murphy.' then glancing at Clarke, 'I'm guessing you told Raven?'

Clarke shifts, but he's not upset, just clarifying, and she nods before adding, 'And Monty.'

'Best to keep at that then.' Indra advises. 'Kane gave us a copy of that file. Cage has people inside APD.'

'Or inside Arkadia's courts.' Lincoln mutters.

Clarke's earlier fears were right after all.

Indra nods and continues, 'All records for minors are sealed. There's no way he could have gotten Bellamy's without some heft pulling the strings.'

'Like a senator?' Kane murmurs.

'Like a senator.' Lincoln confirms. 'Although we don't know yet if he's involved or Cage is working this on his own for now.' He turns fully to Clarke and Bellamy, 'Those test-results of Aurora's? They were pulled from the hospital files.'

Aurora Blake, Clarke remembers the name from the folder. Bellamy's mother.

'Nyko and I went down to Ambrosia, the studio Mom was working for at the time.' Octavia says and Bellamy nods, 'They're registered with the city so their workers have to submit copies of full medical reports and test results for STDs and substance abuse before the studio can renew their business licence.' her lips tighten, 'It took a warrant for the manager to even talk to us and in the end, she couldn’t even give us the file because they shred employee records five years after the employee has left.'

'So the only copy of Mom's tests are with the hospital.' Bellamy murmurs.

'Yep.' Octavia confirms, 'And the manager says that every test that comes into the studio is stamped received with Ambrosia's seal.'

Clarke leans back and nabs the file sitting on Kane's desk, passing the first page to Bellamy.

'No stamp.' he mutters as he scans the page.

Clarke hums in agreement, leaning into him to look at the test herself.

She ignores the scent of his aftershave clinging to the line of his jaw.

'So Cage also has someone at Sacred Heart.' Lincoln says, 'We're working on finding a contact. It blows that we're wary of our own justice system but we don't wanna tip Cage off.'

'We might have a in at Sacred Heart.' Clarke murmurs and all eyes turn to her. 'I know a surgeon there. He might be able to get us the information we need.'

The detectives hesitate, glancing at each other but Bellamy presses his arm against hers, getting her attention.

'This surgeon,' he murmurs, leaning in, 'Do you trust them?'

'Well, I've known him forever so…' she keeps her eyes on his, straightens her shoulders, 'Jackson's solid, Bellamy.'

'Okay.' he says easily and lifts a brow at Lincoln.

There's a silent conversation between them and Clarke wonders how long they've known each other to be this familiar. Their relationship went beyond Lincoln just being Octavia's partner.

'We'll look into him.' Lincoln finally agrees before turning to Clarke, 'Just give us his details before we leave, yeah?'

Clarke nods.

To tell the truth, she's glad she can offer some - any - sort of help and Jackson is more steadfast than most of the people she knows.

'To reiterate,' Indra says, 'this matter should be need to know. We need to keep this quiet as possible to reduce the risks.'

Clarke agrees but -, 'No one outside the firehouse.' she compromises.

Indra purses her lips. 'People talk.'

Normally, Clarke would agree but this is 82. She trusts everyone in here with her life.

Indra turns to Kane, lifting a brow in silent query.

Kane studies Clarke and Bellamy then inclines his head, 'Bellamy, it's your ass on the line, your call.'

For a moment Clarke thinks Bellamy is going to agree with Indra. But then he glances at her, the furrow between his eyes deepening.

'I'm with Clarke on this one.' he says, surprising her, 'We can't protect them if they don't know the full story and,' he sucks in a breath, glancing at her again, the tip of his tongue darts out to touch his upper lip as he considers his words, 'there's a possibility that I might not be the only one he comes after. The house needs to know.'

That was basically her mindset about telling him when Cage first gave her the file, Clarke thinks, her skin prickling.

Maybe she and Bellamy weren't so different after all.

'For what it's worth, Indra,' Octavia puts in, 'there's no one here that we can't trust.'

Indra studies her officers, dark gaze moving from Octavia to Lincoln.

'I'm with Octavia on this.' the Detective says.

Indra nods. 'All right.' she finally agrees, 'Let's bring the house in.'

When they brief everyone, starting from Clarke kicking Roddy in the chest, the temperature drops.

Clarke studies the tense faces in front of her and realises that not a single expression changed at the information on Bellamy's rap-sheet as a minor. They all knew before this. Or they just didn't care.

'Let Cage try.' Miller says into the silence, low and soft, dark eyes glinting below the edge of his beanie. 'Just let him try.'

Bellamy steps forward, hand out, 'Miller -'

'Nah, man.' Miller's eyes narrow, 'Not letting you go down.' his gaze snaps to Clarke, 'Or you.'

There's a rumble of agreement from everyone around them and Clarke bites her lip to stop the protest.

She doesn't deserve this, their loyalty - not her.

'No one is going down.' Bellamy says and there's enough exasperation in his voice that even Clarke almost believes him.

Almost.

Because she knows how Cage thinks, knows how twisted he can get and she fears that strength of heart might not be enough.

'Let Lincoln handle this.' Bellamy tells the room quietly, 'We can't go maverick because if it blows back on us, the whole house gets screwed.' Then he's turning to Miller, stepping up fully until he's toe to toe with his best friend, 'Don't get sucked back in. Not for me.'

What is he talking about?

Miller studies Bellamy, jaw clenching, before his attention shifts to Clarke. 'Where do you stand on this?'

Clarke doesn't know exactly what Miller's asking but the question is heavy, loaded. She looks at the faces around the room, Raven, Monty, Jasper, Harper - everyone, determination, resignation and a cold rage, and she knows her answer will tip the scales.

Whatever she will say might raise hell, but it might also clear Bellamy.

She wants to tell Miller to do whatever he's has planned, to unleash hell and bring Cage to his knees.

But her eyes move to Bellamy and he holds her gaze, light shifting across his cheekbones, caressing the cut of his jaw. He stands there, dark polo stretched across his broad shoulders, cargoes, boots, every inch the Lieutenant. He waits for her answer and she can't help the dip in her belly when she holds his gaze.

_Trust me_ , Bellamy says without words. _Trust me_ , his eyes says.

Clarke swallows and haltingly, takes a step towards him.

His eyes warm and his chin lifts.

She keeps walking she reaches Bellamy, until she's shoulder to shoulder with him.

_Doesn't that feel right?_ a voice that is her own but not her own murmurs, _Standing shoulder to shoulder with him? Doesn't that feel natural?_

It does.

God, how did she get in so deep?

Turning her head, Clarke looks up at him, meets his dark eyes, and gives the room her answer.

'I'm with Bellamy.'

****

'Okay.' Raven says, pulling her down to sit next to her on the sofa, 'You've been at 82 for a couple of months now, right?'

Clarke nods, wary.

She has a feeling she knows what Raven's about to get at because nothing gets by Raven and Clarke has felt her eyes on her all day.

Today marks a complete week since the day she had stood at Bellamy's side and thrown her lot in with him. They're not quite friends yet, but their renewed truce has held strong and true and nothing yet has given her any indication that that was going to change.

But she worries about him more now.

Or perhaps the crippling strength of her anxiety had always been there and it took everything that has happened to force her to admit it.

Clarke can't help it, guilt is burning a hole in her stomach and Bellamy - well, just the thought of Bellamy is guaranteed to fan that burn. Her dreams have been replaced once again by nightmares and she's operating on fumes most days now.

It's their day off and Clarke is about to get changed to meet Lexa. The majority of the house - excluding Miller because he took the weekend to go fishing with his dad and Bellamy who Clarke didn't ask after because she was afraid of the answer - had dropped in for a movie night with Raven and their small living room was packed.

They were planning on The Flash and the only reason Clarke hadn’t thrown a hissy fit at not being able to make it was because they were binging only season one. Monroe was a late convert and they were bringing her up to speed. Which, fair enough, and there’s always space for another on the Westallen ship.

Or maybe the real reason everyone had gathered together was for comfort, even if it was unconsciously. If there was one thing Clarke has learnt about 82 is that they tended to band together when things got a little tough.

Bellamy and Miller had gone hard out on the drills yesterday. They had gone as far as setting a junkyard car ablaze in the yard. That particular drill had ended on a high note with Monroe pulling an Alex Munday with the firehose. As entertaining as it was to watch - and Clarke had watched with the camera on her phone engaged - she and Monty had ended up icing aching muscles and rubbing Deep Heat into limbs after. That particular activity included Bellamy and Miller but she had let Monty take care of them.

In any case, most of the people gathered in the living room were still limping and complaining and enjoying the mutual suffering.

'She's long overdue.' Harper mutters, then erupts into an outraged shriek when Monty's avatar overtakes her smoothly on the screen, furiously tapping her gaming console.

Clarke's eyes narrow warily. 'Overdue for what?'

'Drama.' Jasper calls from the kitchen where he and Monroe had taken over popcorn duty.

'Look, everyone who has come through this house has brought drama with them, everyone who stayed has baggage.' Raven draws in a deep breath. 'I told you about how I met Abby.' she slants a glance at Clarke, 'I didn't tell you that I basically told her to piss off the first time she came to see me. The reason I'm walking is because I was in the tiny percentage that regained feeling in their leg after an accident like that. I was lucky, that's it. The surgery only allowed me to get my mobility up to par so I could get cleared for work. But 82 was there from the beginning.'

But Clarke knows the condition of Raven's leg, knows that she can't maintain forever the current rate she's going at.

'I know.' Raven says, reading Clarke, 'But it's okay.' she rubs her knee absently, 'I have other options I'm looking into. I might not have come out as good as new, but at least I came out with a stronger heart.'

Clarke reaches forward, entwines her fingers with the brunette. 'The strongest.'

Raven squeezes her fingers. Then blowing out a laugh, she claps her hands, looking around the room. 'Okay. So, I did the hardest part. Which one of you suckers are next?'

'Well,' Monroe hands over two giant bowls of popcorn to Murphy and Raven. 'there was the time my old gang came sniffing around, trying to get me back. It got so bad, I moved in with Harper.' she hooks her beer from the table, takes a pull, 'We had to go to the Chief with it.'

'Whoa.' Clarke murmurs, wide-eyed, 'What happened?'

'We dealt with it.' Harper smiles at her as she grips her shoulder with one hand, rotating the sore muscles.

Clarke makes a mental note to get more Deep Heat.

'When I first joined,' Monty contributes, shooting Clarke a smile, 'my ex-dealer - well, Jasper and I's ex-dealer - thought I could pass him medication from the ambo supplies. It was a regular ‘past come back to haunt me’ scenario. I held out for about a month before I got boxed in. I wasn't sleeping, I was jumpy and nervous all the time and I couldn't do my job properly. I almost misdiagnosed a patient before I realised how bad it was.'

'What did you do?' Clarke asks.

Monty shoots a grin, exhaling to lean back onto his hands, 'Well, first I told Jasper - he was still at the Academy then - and we stood up to him.' he winces, 'Didn't go so well because the fucker was big and that was before Nate taught me a few defensive moves. So I went to Bellamy and Nate.' he grins, 'Between the four of us, he backed off.'

'We all learnt a valuable lesson that day.' Raven smirks through a mouthful of popcorn, 'Don't piss off Miller.'

Monty rolls his eyes but his smile softens.

Damn, he has got it bad.

When she had finally plucked up the courage to ask, Monty had explained about Miller's last relationship with a firefighter who had also on Truck. They had been together since high school and while the break-up was a mutual decision, it was hard enough that the firefighter had transferred to another house. So Monty was approaching everything slowly and by the looks of things, Miller was letting him set the pace.

'There was the time,' Murphy mutters, breaking into Clarke's thoughts, 'my mother turned up at the firehouse, drunk and pissed.' he smiles but there's bitterness and sadness behind the curl of his lip.

Raven wrapped her arms around herself, gaze going slightly glassy, 'That was…that wasn't nice.'

'No, it wasn't.' Murphy agrees quietly and he leans over the couch to clink his bottle against hers, ‘To shitty mothers, yeah?’

‘To shitty, alcoholic mothers.’ Raven agrees.

'Some good came out of it.' Monty offers, 'Murphy finally figured out 82 was behind him.' he shrugs up at Murphy, 'You're still an asshole, but you're our asshole.'

'This house is full of assholes.' Raven grumbles as Murphy and Monty bump fists and Clarke snorts. 'Hell, even Octavia had drama that seeped into the house. But,' she pauses, biting her lip, 'that's Lincoln's story to tell.'

Clarke accepts this without a protest.

'I've been sober for three hundred and sixteen days.' Jasper says suddenly, generous mouth twisting. He rubs his goatee, staring at his boots, 'Almost pushed away my friends if it weren't for Monty. Almost lost the last of my self-worth if weren't for Raven. Almost lost my job if it weren't for Miller and Bellamy.' he glances up at Clarke under dark lashes, 'We all have baggage we try to deal with. I dealt with mine with alcohol. 82 dealt with my shit. Took me on and wouldn't let go. Nothing's ever gonna make me let go.'

Raven shifts on the couch, 'Everyone calls us The Delinquents, did you know that?'

Clarke's mouth opens and slowly, she nods.

'They say that 82 is where all the rejects go.' Monty explains wryly, 'Those who the AFD or the APA couldn't place because they've been transferred too many times between houses. Which,' he shrugs, nonchalant, 'I guess was fair back then. But things changed. I know Bellamy asked to be placed under Kane. Miller just wanted to be a firefighter so he wasn't fussed and asked for a transfer to 82 once he completed his candidacy to join Bellamy.'

Jasper tears off the wrapper of a chocolate bar. 'Everyone else trickled in over the years and boom, the most badass firehouse in Arkadia.' he smiles at Clarke through a mouthful of chocolate and nuts, 'Although in Octavia's case, she joined another department. But she's been around 82 since she was like thirteen or something and she's come through every time we needed her. She's Delinquent blood regardless of the uniform she wears.'

'We're a little rough around the edges but we still have the highest success rate in the city.' Harper grins.

'When there's a fire in your neighbourhood,' Jasper sings, 'no one else wants to touch, who you gonna call?' he swirls a finger in the air.

Monty sighs with the weariness of one who has been through this routine one too many times and with the rest of the room mumbles dutifully, 'The Delinquents.'

Clarke can't help it - she laughs.

But despite her humour, she understands why they managed to pull off saves people would think are impossible. Bellamy, Miller, a Chief who trusts his Lieutenants implicitly, and a house bonded together by love, shared tragedy and the real meaning of family.

A house that was now her family too.

'So,' Raven murmurs, nudging her with a delicate foot, 'we get the guilt you're feeling for bringing drama to the house. We do, we've all been there.' she leans in to make her point, 'But 82 has seen its share of storms.' a dry smile, glittering dark eyes, 'We're not helpless, Clarke, we're survivors. This house survived everything each one of us threw at it because everyone else pulled together. And whatever you bring, 82 _will_ survive you.'

Clarke sits there, let's Raven's words, her friends' support, wash over her.

'Hey,' Monty says suddenly, 'don't you have a date?'

Clarke shoots up, throwing a panicked look at her watch. She swoops to smack kisses on the nearest body part she could reach of her friends and takes off.

She showers, applies makeup, slips into a dress, pulls back her hair into a ballerina bun and totters out, heels dangling from her fingers.

She gets wolf whistles, a demand to borrow her dress from Raven and a smirking reminder from Monty to have fun. She blows all of them kisses in return.

When she gets to the restaurant, she's only five minutes late.

She rushes in, meeting Lexa in the foyer, gasping out an apology that Lexa waves away with a smile.

'Nice dress.' the brunette murmurs, moving in to kiss her on the cheek.

Clarke laughs and squeezes her shoulder. 'Speak for yourself.'

Lexa, smelling sweet, pulls back, taking the compliment with a quirk of her lips. 'Shall we -'

'Clarke, how lovely to see you again.'

Her stomach sinking, Clarke turns to see Cage emerging from the entrance.

Bellamy's face flashes in her mind's eye - features tight, mouth hard as he stares down at that file.

The urge to punch Cage in the face is still strong as ever.

'Wish I could say the same.' she mutters, barely noticing that Lexa stiffens beside her.

Cage slides up, cold eyes flicking to Lexa and narrowing slightly. 'Dinner?'

'Obviously.' Clarke says, ice in her voice, her spine ramrod straight.

Doesn't he have somewhere - under a rock, maybe - he has to slither to?

Cage tuts then sighs. 'I suppose I haven't brought you around then.'

'You have.' she lies coolly, 'Doesn't mean I have to like it.'

But Cage ignores her last comment and inclines his head gracefully. His smile is triumphant and if Clarke could, she would have to loved to see it fall from his face. Preferably followed by his teeth.

She never knew she could be quite so bloodthirsty but perhaps being around a vampire like Cage rubbed off on oneself.

Gazing into the abyss and all that.

Ignoring the tense silence, Cage murmurs, 'That's good to hear. Perhaps I will see you soon again, my dear.'

To Clarke's relief, he steps back and away. She doesn't like the look he gives Lexa but she's just glad he's leaving.

'Interesting company you keep.' Lexa says quietly when Cage finally disappears from sight.

'Trust me,' Clarke mutters, 'I wouldn't go near the man if I had a choice.'

Lexa finally relaxes, something Clarke only then realises and turns her attention back to the brunette.

'Cage Wallace is a snake.' Lexa says in explanation to Clarke's questioning look. 'A pretty snake with pretty colours which dazzle you up until you're dying from the poison he injects into your veins.'

The waiter arrives to guide them to their table and Clarke sends one more look over her shoulder at where Cage had disappeared.

'You should hear Harper describe him.' she says as she lowers herself into the seat opposite Lexa, 'Something about feeling like a fly caught by a spider.' she thinks of Lexa's words and tilts her head to study her, 'You know him?'

'I know of him.' Lexa says over the top of her menu. 'Until tonight, I've never actually met him.'

The way she keeps her gaze averted alerts Clarke to the fact that perhaps the brunette doesn't want to go further into it.

'So.' Clarke opens up her own menu. 'How have you been?'

They try to steer the conversation into lighter topics but Cage's presence has left a cloudy taste to the air and even the food tastes off. Clarke keeps thinking of Cage, of Bellamy, of the house and Lexa is distracted in her own thoughts.

Clarke wonders if Bellamy has heard anything back about his report, if he's already starting to feel the pressure of an investigation and how long they have before Cage is alerted to the fact. How long they have before the storm hits.

_I would weather the worst of storms if you were at my side._

She starts as the voice slips into her sub-conscious and away again, a brush against her mind.

_Now's not the time, Vulcan,_ she thinks.

Great, now she's talking back to the voices in her head.

But with the thought of Vulcan comes the thought of Bellamy and Clarke wonders again if he had been better off if she had never come to 82.

She should have never -

'You're a million miles away.'

For the second time, Clarke starts. This time it's with guilt. 'Cage.' she explains, hastily. When Lexa's head tilts, Clarke lowers her eyes, 'It's just work stuff.'

'You told me once that I could talk to you.' the brunette says, 'Let me return the favour.' and when Clarke still hesitates, she lowers the menu, 'Cage went after some of the members in my firehouse. One got fired, the other quit and my house is still reeling from it. That's how I know about him.'

Clarke finally meets Lexa's eyes.

The controlled anger in Lexa's gaze is what makes her decision for her.

'I screwed up.' she confesses. 'Bellamy's paying for it.' she flicks a nail at the silverware.

'You’re worried.' Lexa says, watching her closely.

'Of course I'm worried.' she immediately regrets the sharpness in her tone and tries to counter it, 'I'm worried about everyone. What if Cage does to my house what he did to yours?'

_What if Bellamy ends up fired?_

But she doesn't say that because she's scared of even saying the words out loud.

'You don't have to downplay your concern for Bellamy.' Lexa says wryly, 'I'm not blind.'

Clarke swallows the protest that flies to her lips. 'He's the one most in danger.' she shakes her head, 'And he's just so…he has this honourable streak that -' she stares down at her fork in her fingers, ' - he doesn't see how much 82 needs him. How much better things are with him around. How much -' she scrambles for something to say that describes the emotions that surge up at his name and can't because while she can taste them, she can't verbalise them, 'He can be an ass but he's also -' she looks up, meeting Lexa's eyes and falls silent. 'He doesn't deserve this.' she finishes weakly.

Lexa nods, raises her glass for a sip. 'Bellamy will be fine.' she says quietly, licking the wine from her lips, 'He is the Lieutenant of a firehouse. You exist in the grey area that is the PIC of his firehouse. Therefore, while you may not report to him, he is still a leader in his own right. And as a Lieutenant, he is doing what he feels is best for his house.' she leans over to pour wine into Clarke's glass, the liquid sloshing against the side, 'You need to trust that he knows what he is doing.'

'That's not the problem -'

'Isn't it?'

'I trust Bellamy.' Clarke says heatedly, 'I just don’t want to see him hurt.'

She stops at the words, Lexa leans back in her seat and Clarke drops her eyes again, suddenly unsure of the meaning of her words.

'Then perhaps that is the problem.' the brunette murmurs, 'You cannot allow soft emotions to dictate your actions.'

'You speak like it's a bad thing.'

'It's a bad thing if it hinders your ability to do your job, Clarke.'

But that isn't true, Clarke realises.

Fine, maybe she got attached to a baby who deserved better but - who is she hurting?

She had once thought like Lexa, closed herself off to victims, tended to their wounds and pulled herself back from caring too much. But since 82, she has let herself feel more and in no way did it negatively affect her job.

If anything, it actually helped. Even if Clarke looked at it objectively, victims reacted to her better because she didn't treat them clinically. They reacted better now that she was showing she cared. And it was amazing what a simple comforting touch, maintained eye contact and a smile from a paramedic can do for a victim.

Then Clarke thinks of Raven fighting tooth and nail to return to a burning house to find Bellamy. She thinks of Monty holding her and letting her hold him in return. She thinks of Jasper disappearing under his cheering team when he nails a tricky ladder drill. Of Octavia betting her career without hesitation because her love for her brother is stronger than her temper. Of Bellamy running into a high-risk situation with a water bottle still in his hand.

She might have listened to Lexa - might have even agreed with her - before she joined 82. But can she say the same thing now?

Can she turn her heart cold after knowing 82?

But Lexa's expression tells Clarke that she won't be swayed.

Something in Clarke withers.

'We should order.' she says quietly and bows her head over her menu again.

Lexa lets it go but Clarke cannot help the feeling that a shift had occurred.

They eat, they talk and stay away from the subject of Bellamy and Cage and they leave. When Lexa asks her if she still wanted to spend the night, Clarke says yes because she has already told Raven she wouldn't be home tonight and Lexa takes her hand, smiling at her almost sadly.

So she says yes.

But as they change and slide into bed, lying on their sides in the dark, Clarke feels the distance and it's more than just the foot of bed between them.

A little of her heart breaks but Clarke knows, as she drifts off to sleep, that their demanding schedules aren't the only things about them that cannot be reconciled.

_She blinks at the dagger set next to her hand._

_Vulcan is a warm, dark presence at her back._

_'Consider it a belated wedding gift.' he rumbles._

_She doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at the dagger._

_Rose-tinted copper, double-edged stiletto blade the length of her hand from wrist to tip of her middle digit, and as thin as her finger. Its hilt is pale, polished bone, inlaid with a gold filled filigree carving of a rose vine, twining up the hilt, the bloom becoming the pommel._

_The blade glitters against the dark wood of the table._

_For all its delicateness, she would wager it can withstand Jupiter's lightning bolts._

_When Vulcan moves to sit next to her, Venus turns. Twines her fingers into his hair, guides his head down to hers and kisses him deep._

_'Thank you.' she whispers against his mouth and feels his lips smile against hers._

_'You're welcome.' he says gruffly._

_She laughs, leans to pull the platter of mixed meats and fruit towards them. Hunger is a sharp ache in her belly but she's not entirely sure if it's for food or her husband._

_The attendant is pouring wine into their goblets when Vulcan begins to heap his plate and Venus runs a finger down the blade of the dagger._

_It truly is a masterpiece._

_She presses a kiss to Vulcan's bare shoulder, his soft laugh vibrating against her lips. She flips the dagger, presses the tip down into the wood of the table and spins it, delighting in its balance and weight._

_'Had I known you would be more interested in that than breaking your fast,' Vulcan says dryly, 'I would have waited until after to present you with the dagger.'_

_She laughs and makes a show of sighing, reaching for a date. 'There, I'm eating. Satisfied, Fire God?'_

_He watches her, amused, as she swallows and picks a slice of meat. But when she raises it to her mouth, the smile slips from his face and his eyes narrow._

_She pauses. 'What's wrong?' and when his hand snaps out, taking it from her, repeats, 'Vulcan, what are -'_

_He bites into the meat, chews before disgust twists his mouth and his head turns to spit it out. 'Swan.'_

_The dagger clatters to the table surface and nausea boils in her belly._

_Swan._

_She almost ate - Venus shudders. Her sigil, her symbol, her spirit manifested and she almost -_

_Rage bubbles up her throat._

_Who would dare -_

_Her eyes fly to the attendant. He stares back at her, face blank. Then a flicker of emotion and he turns._

_Before either of them could make another move, Vulcan is surging up from his seat, arm flashing across the space. He catches the attendant by the collar and hauls him hard enough that the attendant flies backward._

_Platters and food fly as the attendant lands on his back in the middle of the table. He struggles before finding the tip of Venus' dagger sinking into the gold of his throat._

_Even a Golden One cannot survive without his head._

_'Who?' she asks, rage and war coursing through her veins._

_But the attendant does not speak and the only sound in their hall is the drip, drip, drip of spilled wine onto the marble floor._

_Vulcan's hand presses against the small of her back as he moves in. He wraps a hand around the attendant's throat. 'Speak.'_

_The power in his voice, usually restrained, bleeds into the air and it's enough to set the pillars trembling._

_The attendant's mouth opens and he blinks furiously and Venus understands - he is a Golden One, a being crafted out of metal and breathed into life by Vulcan._

_There are several at the Pantheon, these creations, servers to gods and goddesses, born from the Fire God's forges and moulded by his hands. And whoever they may currently serve, they cannot disregard the call of their creator._

_'Juno.' the attendant finally says, eyes returning to lifeless once the name is spoken._

_Vulcan releases him with a snarl and Venus pulls back._

_'Remind your mistress,' Vulcan says, 'that neither Venus nor I stand alone anymore.' he leans in, 'Remind her that even gods can die.'_

_The attendant straightens from the table, bows and leaves, blank faced once again._

_Into the silence, Venus whispers, 'You have just threatened the Queen of the Gods.'_

_She should feel frightened but it is hard to be frightened when the strength of a volcano is at her side._

_Vulcan wraps an arm around her neck, pulling her into the warmth of his body. 'Juno will not move against us publically.' he murmurs into her hair. 'She will not risk splitting the Parthenon with war.' he bows his head to press his mouth to the curve of her neck, 'This is on me. I have slighted her one too many times and -'_

_'Whatever your transgressions, this is her challenge. If Juno wishes to wage war, let her.' Venus leans into Vulcan. She does not care what the future brings as long as her husband is by her side. 'I promised you my loyalty. And we stand together.'_

_He straightens, turns her around to lean his forehead against hers. She places one hand against his chest, his heart beating strong and hard against her fingers, the dagger in her other hand._

_Nothing is going to take her from Vulcan._

_And she'll be damned to hell and back before she lets anyone take him._

_'Together.' he murmurs._

_She tilts her head back to press her mouth to his. 'Together.'_

Clarke rears up in bed, sheets falling to her waist. The cold air slaps into her skin and it helps to shake off the rest of the dream.

Then as reality begins to seep in, she rubs at her eyes, shoulders slumping, heart breaking anew. Hesitant, Clarke looks over at Lexa to see the brunette asleep, the rounded line of her cheek visible in the dark.

Clarke curls onto her side as tears threaten.

She's never had a dream before while in Lexa's bed but now that she has -

It's time.

She can't hold this off any longer. Clarke presses her mouth against her closed fist to muffle her frustrated sob.

Shit, it's Finn all over again.

****

The next morning is grey and dark and it's barely dawn when she gets home.

Inside the building, Clarke is trying to quietly unlock her front door, unwilling to wake Raven. She finally manages it and tiptoes inside with a relieved sigh. She turns around and nearly drops her purse when a shadow moves in the living room.

The shadow shifts on the sofa to sit at its edge and Clarke can finally make out features in the dim light.

'Bellamy?' she snaps, 'What are you doing here?'

He's in a thin t-shirt and grey sweats and Clarke wonders wildly if she had somehow wondered into the wrong apartment.

To wake up from a dream where she and he – Venus and Vulcan, she corrects herself, spoke about loyalty and trust and to come home to find Bellamy there – it’s almost surreal.

The heat of danger and love that had been surging through Venus is still surging through her and Clarke’s not sure she’s equipped to deal with this so early in the morning.

'Jesus.' Bellay mutters to the floor, head down, elbows on knees, voice hoarse from disuse. 'What's the time?'

His head turns to her and god help her, she needs to plant her feet so she doesn't go to him.

There's a gentleness in his eyes, a blurry tenderness that comes before harsh light wakes you fully from sleep, and a deep melancholia that tightens her throat.

'It's just past five.' she whispers, 'Why were you sleeping on our couch?'

Bellamy slides her a quick glance from under unruly curls. 'Raven's knee twinged.''

The pit of her stomach plummets. 'What?'

'Hey, hey, hey,' Bellamy comes to his feet, stepping in front of her as she moves across the room, catching her wrist to keep her still, 'she's fine.' he says softly, voice a soothing timbre. 'She's fine.' his thumb presses into her pulse point comfortingly before letting her go, 'I promise.'

Clarke wraps her own fingers around the wrist he had held, her tattoo tingling, chasing the comfort his touch had given her. 'What happened?'

He waits until she steps back, head cocking. 'Raven ever tell you about these scares?'

'When I first moved in.' Clarke says, 'She says it's psychological and she's been to enough tests to back it up.'

Episodes that can range from a quickly caught breath to a full blown panic attack, although Raven had said that she hadn't had a panic attack in a year.

Always with the same beginning - the memory of being caught under a beam, a burning building around her, and then a leg that wouldn't obey her. That was the worst, Raven had told her, the alien invasive feeling that her body no longer belonged to her.

'She has.' Bellamy confirms, 'It’s usually triggered and most times she gets through it.' his eyes turn worried, 'And then there are the nights she needs someone there. It hasn't happened in a while. She must have been thinking about the accident a lot recently.'

'She has.' Clarke repeats his words, closing her eyes briefly.

Like only hours before.

'It wasn't a bad one, she didn't want to disturb your date.' Bellamy continues quietly, 'She just asked if I could come sit with her a while. I did. But -,' he pulls in a breath, 'I didn't wanna leave her alone for the rest of the night.'

There was nothing pointed about his words but guilt still claws at her.

'Why didn't you call me?' she asks, 'I would have -'

'I didn't wanna be the asshole that disturbs your date either.' Bellamy says, wry smile tugging at his lips, shadows in his eyes, 'She insisted she was fine, I just wanted to be sure. No big deal.'

She digests that.

'Thank you.' she says quietly. 'I know you did it for Raven, but thank you anyways.'

Bellamy clears his throat. 'Yeah, sure.' he says gruffly, shifting on his feet. 'I should go.' he mutters and moves towards her and the door.

Why?

But she forgets her ridiculous question because Bellamy draws even with her on his way and pauses. She looks up at slowly sharpening eyes, tousled hair and that distracting scar at the corner of his mouth.

His eyes move across her face.

If she was fanciful, if she believed in magic, she would believe it only existed during this time of day, when the world was half-asleep and half-awake. When the dawn sky is still streaked with night. When the moon was too busy kissing the sun to realise that their magic was spilling onto the earth.

Maybe that's what's happening here.

A soft magic that truly broke the barriers between them and allowed for this to happen.

Bellamy's lips part and he hesitates. Then his fingers brush the inside of her forearm. 'See you, Clarke.'

She's still trying to breathe through the shock of the heat of his fingers before his words sink in. And as he passes her, Clarke makes a decision.

If they're going to try to be allies, she might as well put in some effort.

She spins on her heel. 'Stay?'

Bellamy freezes. He turns around slowly, brow furrowed. 'Sorry?'

'I -' _now what?_ ' - stay for breakfast.' she waves her hand at her flatmate's closed door, 'Raven should be up soon. Consider it a thank you.'

Was it too much?

But Bellamy just studies her.

Slowly, he nods once.

'Yeah?' she confirms, almost in disbelief.

'I can do breakfast.' he says, casual if it weren’t for him shoving his hands into his pockets, 'What's on the menu?'

She hadn't actually thought that far yet.

'Uh -' she turns to look at the cupboard doors, 'you have a choice between toast and waffles. Or cereal.'

She scrunches her nose.

How do you invite someone to breakfast and not have anything to offer them?

Bellamy's lips twitch. 'How about a counter-offer?' he says, head tilting, 'You don't have eggs. But I do.' he quirks a brow, 'Frittata? You like those, right?'

Clarke bites back the grin threatening to erupt - she loves his frittatas. But - 'I invited you so technically, I should be cooking.'

'Are we really going to argue about who's cooking?'

He's got a point.

Clarke gives in. 'You’re cooking then.'

'Kay.' he clears his throat, pushing himself off the door, 'So, I'm just going to run up, grab a shower and be back with the eggs. Half an hour?'

'It’s a -' _for heaven's sake, don't say it_ '- deal.' she rocks forward on her toes, 'Deal.'

It's only when Bellamy leaves and Clarke's brushing her teeth that his words sink in.

How did he know she liked the way he made frittatas?

Sure, she goes for seconds when Bellamy takes breakfast at the firehouse and makes them frittatas. But she never thought he would notice. Apparently, she was wrong.

She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Or rather, she just doesn't want to examine the warmth flooding her at the thought.

Her arm stills.

'What are you doing?' she asks her reflection.

Inviting him for breakfast?

That's dangerous ground.

But she's not doing anything wrong - it's just breakfast and she wouldn't think twice about inviting Monty for breakfast.

She can have a friend over for breakfast.

_The difference is_ , her mind points out, _you're not having dreams about Monty or Harper._

_This is ridiculous_ , she argues back, _this is not about me or those stupid dreams. This is about Bellamy and the exhaustion in his eyes. This is about showing my appreciation to someone who stayed with my friend last night because she needed him to. This is about alliances and friends and trying. So shut it and leave me the hell alone._

Her mind doesn't reply and she takes it as a victory.

She's making coffee in jerky, uncoordinated movements, by the time Bellamy returns.

He walks into the kitchen, bringing with him the scent of soap and smoke-streaked jet. It mingles with the smell of fresh coffee and swirls around Clarke.

The taste of his presence on the air reminds her too much of Vulcan's.

Bellamy sets a ceramic bowl on the counter and turns in time to take the mug she offers him with a muttered thanks.

'Huh.' Bellamy says after the first sip, lifting a brow at his coffee.

'What?' she practically snaps.

She did it right, she's sure.

Bellamy shoots her an inscrutable look before lifting the mug up to his lips again. 'Nothing.'

'That's how you take it, right?' she asks, defensive, 'First cup, milk and honey?'

He sets his mug down on the counter with a soft click, shooting her that look again. 'Yep, that's it.'

She's defensive and ornery despite her vow to keep Venus and Vulcan out of this.

God, she's messing up this alliance thing already and they've barely started.

Bellamy watches her, eyes narrowing, picking up on her vibe. But thankfully, he doesn't comment, just pulls the bowl towards him.

Reigning in herself, she hesitates, unsure about what to say, as he unwraps the cheese, moves to dump the wrapper in the trash and pauses, foot on the pedal.

'Monty and Jasper were here last night, huh?' he asks, glancing at her over his shoulder. He gestures at the bin, 'Twinkie wrappers. Those two operate on sugar.' he says, a grin making it across his lips.

Her shoulders relax.

And shockingly, just like that, the tense air dissipates.

They talk about their friends, about their work. It's weird - being like this with Bellamy. It's a little awkward and when the silence gets too long, they both rush to fill it, but it's also a surprisingly easy rhythm to get into.

They skirt around the subject of Cage aside from disparaging remarks but Clarke's relieved because she doesn't know if this new-found easiness between them would last under the pressure of a heavier subject.

She does, however, tell Bellamy about the time she was seventeen and snapped off the heel of her stiletto just so she wouldn’t have to dance with Cage at a gala ball. Her mother hadn't been amused at first - _Clarke, Cage Wallace is not worth a perfectly good pair of heels._ \- but her father was - _Next time, just kick him in the 'nads, kiddo_ \- and Abby had ended the night with a fond, if exasperated, kiss to her forehead.

Bellamy snorted so hard he choked on his coffee and Clarke begins to realise just how much she enjoys the sight of him smiling.

Her eyes move to Raven’s closed door, her thoughts sobering. Her hands pause over the cutting board, an apple clutched in her fingers.

‘You think she’s really okay?’ she asks.

Behind her, the sound of Bellamy’s motions stops. Then she hears his footsteps coming towards her and she ducks her head over the board again.

He settles into the counter, next to her, arms braced wide on the countertop. The scent of him swirls around her, comforting and warm, and she doesn't even realise that her heart is finally slowing because scent memory is a powerful thing.

Clarke turns her head to look at him and his dark eyes are steady, calm, soothing.

‘She will be,’ Bellamy tells her softly, ‘because Raven’s a fighter and because we’ll be here to catch her if she falls.’

He's close - much too close - and Clarke's eyes trace the line of his proud brow, the gentle tear-drop curve of his eyes, the line of his mouth. Between the compassion in Bellamy's gaze and his obvious physical attractiveness, there's so much beauty in one face, it's almost unfathomable.

How did they go from being at each other's throat to this, quiet words in the soft dawn, murmurs offering comfort?

Then another thought: still think it's just breakfast?

Still think it can be _just_ anything when it comes to Bellamy Blake?

'Well, look at you two.'

Clarke starts, almost jumping away from Bellamy but catching herself in time. Bellamy turns away, leaning in harder against the counter, a resigned sigh leaving him.

Raven stands in the hallway, smirking, 'Being all civil and shit. Knew you guys had it in you.' Before either of them could reply though, her gaze moves to Clarke, her smirk gentling into a smile, 'I'm fine, babe. Promise.'

Clarke takes her in and aside from the shadows under her eyes, Raven does look okay. She takes the brunette's word for it but makes a note to ask her about it later.

'Bellamy's making frittatas,' she informs Raven, all business, 'I'm on fruit salad. Want to set the table?'

Raven flips her a salute and pads into the kitchen, bare feet slapping onto the tile. For a few minutes, there's just the sound of clinking cutlery, the sizzle of the pan and a knife on a chopping board.

Clarke inhales the scent of herbs, butter and coffee and at her back, Raven's voice and Bellamy's deeper rumble rise and fall in a comfortable rhythm. It's a seductive thing - this feeling of right and home.

Then -

'How's Gina?' Raven asks Bellamy as she slides into the stool at the island, opposite Clarke. 'Haven't talked to her for a while.'

Clarke's knife halts before continuing.

'You have a phone, Reyes.' Bellamy counters, 'Ask her yourself.'

'Yeah, but it's only past seven and you're here, so.' then leaning Clarke's way, 'Gina's old-town Arkadia.' Raven confides, 'She grew up here and she and Bellamy were together for a while before she left.'

Clarke hums.

That burn in her stomach is just the coffee.

'Apparently, it was pretty serious but they grew apart after she moved.' Raven continues.

Elsa had it right with the whole 'conceal, don't feel' shtick.

'Jasper has a big mouth.' Bellamy grumbles.

Raven leans over to grab a slice of apple from the heap in the bowl. 'Was he lying though?'

Clarke glances over her shoulder and catches Bellamy tipping his head up to the ceiling in the universal sign of annoyance.

'You guys back together?'

'Damn it, Raven, I'm here to make breakfast, not get interrogated.'

'So that's a yes?'

Clarke glares at her but the brunette just rolls her eyes.

'It's a yes and no.' Bellamy shuts the fridge door with a little more force than necessary, 'Got any more questions about my private life?

Raven reaches for another apple slice, glaring when Clarke lightly slaps her hand. She sneaks an orange section instead, smiling victoriously, and Clarke hopes it's enough to distract her. But -

Raven swallows, 'Actually -'

'Jesus.'

'Raven.' Clarke hisses.

' - I do because that answer was ambiguous as fuck.' Raven says, wrinkling her nose at them both, 'So 'yes and no', that means -'

'It's casual.' Bellamy snaps, his eyes shift to Clarke and away, 'Are we done here?'

Oh.

Clarke looks up from the pear she's slicing to see Raven lifting a brow at her.

She knew.

She knew Bellamy and Gina weren't exclusive.

But really, she doesn't care whether they're exclusive or not, Clarke thinks. She has no claim to Bellamy's heart - anything - despite what her dreams tell her.

Wait - heart?

'Yep.'

Raven's looking at her and for a panic-ridden second, Clarke thinks that she had spoken out loud and Raven was answering her but then the brunette adds, 'I'm done with you , Bellamy.'

Then her gaze turns predatory, 'How was your date, Clarke? Good night? When did you get in?'

Behind Clarke, there's the wet snick of something hitting the floor.

Bellamy snarls and Clarke spins to see him tearing off a paper towel and dropping into a crouch to wipe up the mess of raw egg and brown shell.

'You okay there, Bellamy?' Raven chirps, cheerful, and gets a murderous look in reply.

Clarke has to admire the brunette's immunity to glares.

'I'll grab the mop.' she says and tugs a protesting Raven along with her.

'Hey, I don't want to get -'

'I'll get the damn mop.' Bellamy says irritably, 'My mess.'

'What are you doing?' she whisper-yells at Raven, once Bellamy's out of hearing range.

'I was just asking how your date with Lexa went!' Raven hisses back at her.

Clarke dumps more orange sections into the bowl. 'After Bellamy's interrogation, don't think I don't know what's coming. And stop sneaking oranges!'

'Yeah well,' Raven's clever fingers pluck a section from the chopping board, 'someone needs to do something because you two are the most stubborn -'

'There is nothing there!' _Liar_. 'We're both in relationships with other people!'

'You heard Bellamy, it's casual -'

'You don't know if Gina feels the same way!' Clarke hisses, 'She didn't tell us that -'

'No, the word she used was 'fuckbuddies'.'

Clarke shuts up.

Raven draws back, gaze flicking behind Clarke before returning to her. She opens her mouth, hesitates and then blows out a breath, 'How serious is it with you? If you're with Lexa because you're falling for her, great, I'll hold my tongue. But if not, then, babe.' her gaze softens. 'You bitch more about Bellamy than you talk about Lexa and -'

'We have busy lives.'

But how exclusive is exclusive when the ghosts of two other people are constantly present? When Costia still haunts Lexa - Lexa might pretend but when she mentions Costia's name, her eyes still glitter - and Clarke still bites her tongue to keep herself from talking about Bellamy?

A part of her already knows the answer.

And if that didn't answer anything, last night cleared up a lot.

'You're full of crap.' Raven says but her tone is soft.

Yes, yes, she is.

But then Bellamy is back and Clarke remains silent.

If he senses anything is off, he doesn't comment on it. But then again, Clarke thinks, watching the veins in his arms ripple as he slides the mop across the floor expertly, he seems preoccupied himself.

He glances up and too late, Clarke's caught.

They look at each other, across the expanse of a kitchen floor and she thinks, chest warm, she wouldn’t mind seeing him like this again.

A little irritated but comfortable enough that his movements are easy and fluid as he moves around the kitchen . Messy black hair and wide brown shoulders. Eyes that are pensive and little tired, but looking at her like she might not be his undoing after all.

And Clarke thinks that maybe, she wouldn't mind being like this with him - no makeup, sloppy hair, tank-top, baggy sweats and bare feet.

She's aware enough to know that she uses clothes as a barrier, a wall, a layer of her persona to guard her heart.

In her uniform, she is Paramedic Griffin, professional, level-headed, coolly competent. The gowns she wears say that she is a daughter of Arkadian privilege, and like every mask, they do not give anything away while itching and prickling under her skin. They are facets to her persona and she dons them well.

And yet, here she is, that layer of herself stripped.

She could have braided her hair, slapped on eyeliner, could have made an effort to raise her shields, knowing that Bellamy would be there.

But she didn't.

And now, she wonders why.

Because like this, she is just Clarke. Not the paramedic, not the debutante, not even a Griffin and all it entails.

Just the woman.

Just Clarke.

She gave Bellamy this without even realising it.

But it was given nonetheless and the way that Bellamy looks at her now, gaze turning hard and sharp and deep, makes Clarke wonder what he read in her face, makes her think suddenly if he got it before she did.

Before the panic can fully bloom in her chest, Raven shifts on her stool and Bellamy tears his gaze away.

Clarke straightens, turning back to Raven, relief a tattoo on her chest to match the burning one on her wrist.

'Still think there's nothing there?' Raven asks quietly.

Clarke offers her an orange section in reply.

****

A fortnight later, Clarke finds herself arguing with the Desk Sergeant at the Main Precinct of the Arkadia Police Department.

'Did you have an appointment?' the Sergeant asks through narrowed eyes.

'No.' Clarke says, shifting restlessly on her feet.

'Does Lincoln know you're coming?'

'No.'

'Uh huh.'

Impatience sharpens her tone. ‘Look, I just really need to see –‘

'Name?' the Sergeant sighs, picking up the phone.

'Clarke Griffin.'

'Are you going by any other name than the name you have given me?'

'No, I - wait, what?'

'You're asking to see someone from Intelligence,' the Sergeant says as if that explained it all, 'I don't care if you're using your legal name or not, I just want to know if there's another moniker I can use to identify you.'

‘Right, no. That’s my only name.'

It's harder than getting access to the damn CIA.

In Clarke's periphery, on the other side of the room, a woman stomps down stairs to the chain-link door at the bottom of the steps. The woman punches in a code, the door swinging open and then closed behind her. The Sergeant pauses, phone cradled between her shoulder and ear, as the woman crosses the busy floor.

'Hey, Anya!' the Sergeant calls, 'Lincoln up there? This one wants to see him.'

So this is Anya, Anya's-raring-for-a-go-at-Cage, Clarke thinks as the woman turns.

Tousled gold-streaked dark hair, a bone-structure Clarke has only seen on models in magazines and sharp eyes that take in Clarke.

Geez, what is with these cops and their gorgeousness?

'Clarke Griffin.' Anya says with a shark-like smile, startling Clarke out of her thoughts. She nods at the Sergeant, 'She's good, send her up.'

Then she's gone, striding out the door, a tall, slender figure in a tan wool-lined jacket, faded jeans and motorcycle boots.

The Sergeant clears her throat, 'You heard her.' she says, nodding at the chain-link door. 'Go on up, I'll buzz you in.'

Clarke hightails it to the door before she changes her mind again.

Lincoln appears at the top of the stairs as she begins to climb, grinning wide.

'Didn't expect to see you here.' he says as she makes it to the top.

She tries to smile but it doesn’t come out right. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Lincoln’s eyes sharpen as they look her over – bright hair stuffed under a knitted cap, long dark sweater, leggings and boots.

‘Come on in,' he tilts his head towards the open workspace behind him and motions for her to follow, 'Welcome to Intelligence.'

Octavia rises from behind a desk as Clarke comes in deeper.

The office is airy, beaten wooden desks pushed against the walls, papers covering surfaces, wires and innards of devices amongst the coffee mugs.

On one side of the room is a giant gun cage, a heavy padlock hanging from door. On the other side, a giant white board running across the length of the room, almost entirely hidden behind pinned up pages and photos.

Clarke sees, with a jolt, a photo of herself in her paramedic uniform, another of Bellamy pinned to the board.

So that's how Anya recognised her.

While her photo looks like it was taken straight from her personnel file, Bellamy's was a candid, a familiar half-smirk playing across his lips.

Good to know the power of that smirk still translates through a photograph.

She wills herself to look away from Bellamy's photo and to the others on the board. The next ones are of Cage and the Senator on the other side.

'Something wrong?'

Clarke turns to look at Octavia who has crossed the room.

'No – yes.' she amends. 'Cage called a couple of minutes ago.' she lifts her phone, glances at Lincoln, 'I was going home and the precinct was on the way so I – I swung by.'

Understanding flashes across Lincoln's face and his dark eyes turn kind as they land on her jittery hands.

‘Okay, Clarke, breathe.' he tells her gently. ‘What did he say?’

‘He found out about Bellamy’s report,’ she manages through a dry mouth, ‘and he’s giving him a month to file a retraction and an amendment.’

‘Why so long?’ Lincoln wants to know.

Clarke laughs but there’s no humour in the sound. ‘He says he’s generously considering the amount of red tape the retraction is going to attract.’

Octavia’s eyes flash dangerously. ‘And if Bellamy refuses?’

‘Cage goes to the media with the file.’ Clarke drops her head to stare at the phone in her hand, ‘And then he’s coming after the firehouse. AFD is tightening their budget for the financial year. The Board is compiling a list of firehouses to close so that they can cut down costs.’ She raises her head to meet Lincoln’s calm eyes, ‘The Senator is on that board. They're going to make sure 82 doesn’t make the cut.’

‘Motherfucker.’ Octavia snarls, spinning away to pace.

Shit, Bellamy had been right that day in the hallway.

He warned her about this.

‘Hey, look at me.’ Lincoln calls to Clarke softly and when she does, tilts his head, 'I know this is some scary shit. But we're working on it, Clarke. I promise.'

She nods jerkily. ‘Have you found anything yet?’

‘Nothing we can sink our teeth into.’ Lincoln says gently as behind him, Octavia stalks to the board, glaring at the information pinned up.

She expected it but it's still a blow of disappointment and fear. She just wants this nightmare over and done with.

CLarke nods and tries to offer Lincoln a smile. 'I know it hasn't been long enough but -'

'Don't sweat it.' Octavia says aggressively, pausing on her second spin. 'We're on this, Clarke. We'll find something.'

Clarke nods again, pulling in a breath. Then - 'I'm sorry you guys had to get involved.' Clarke says quietly. 'Bellamy was just trying to protect me.'

'We get it.' Lincoln waves a hand at her wryly, 'Bellamy will protect everyone else before he protects himself.'

'My brother,' Octavia bites out, 'has never asked for _anything_ for himself in his life. Our mother did what she had to do and she loved us but she wasn’t around much and - uh.' she lifts a shoulder, eyes growing dark with memories, 'But Bellamy was there. Every day, he was there. He protected me the best he could. '

She quiets but her eyes are still hazy and Clarke could only stand still in horror for Octavia and Bellamy, for whatever hell they must have endured, for the children they were - the children who were robbed at a chance of a real childhood by life and their circumstance.

Lincoln glances at his partner, eyes worried, and reaches out to squeeze Octavia's shoulder.

'The only thing Bellamy has ever gone after, has ever wanted for himself,' Octavia continues quietly, breaking out of her daze, 'is what he has now. The family at 82, saving people, being Lieutenant. He worked so hard.' her eyes shift upwards to meet Clarke's, sharpening and becoming bleak and hard, 'If there is anything I can do to make sure no one takes that away from him, I'm going to do it.' she turns her head to meet Lincoln's eyes, 'We're,' she amends, 'going to do it. So trust me when I say we'll find something.'

Lincoln gives her a smile, soft lips, sharp edges.

'Where do you stand?' Octavia asks, eyes turning to Clarke, suddenly sharp, 'Your ass is in the balance too, but this is Bellamy, Cage is a snake and I want to know. How far out will you put yourself?'

'Fair enough.' Clarke says at once. 'Look, it's a little late now, but Bellamy's in this mess because of my mistake. So whatever you guys need from me, whatever way I can help, you have it.' she lifts her chin, leans in, her eyes darting between the two cops, 'I mean it.' she whispers, low and harsh, 'Whatever it takes. If the only way to untangle him is to let me swing,' she shrugs, 'I'd rather swing than see Bellamy brought down by this.'

There's an appraising look in Octavia's eyes that is slightly unsettling and Lincoln is studying her.

'Rather surprising,' Octavia murmurs, 'coming from you. I know you two haven't been on exactly the best terms. Hell,' she leans back to perch on the edge of a desk, folding her arms across her chest, face blank, 'I thought you hated Bellamy.'

Clarke rears back, stung.

'We didn't get off to the best start, I admit.' she snaps, 'But even I don't think Bellamy deserves this. Regardless of what has happened between us, it's obvious he's a good man.' she straightens, everything she's learning about Bellamy rising to the fore, 'A kind one. Loyal. Giving.' she tugs, agitated, at a curl escaping her knitted cap , 'He might not have given me those parts of him, he might not like me, but he has risked his life for me over and over again.' she stares Octavia down, 'You want to blame me, go ahead, you're not wrong. But you _are_ wrong if you think I would ever willing put him in danger. Bellamy might be one of the best people I have ever -. '

Too late, Clarke notices Octavia's smirk and the way Lincoln is smiling at his boots. She swallows back the rest of her tirade and blinks, unsure, as her furious words still echo in the room.

'Just making sure we're on the same page.' Octavia says lightly.

Lincoln shakes his head and blows out a breath, giving Clarke an apologetic grin.

'Oh.' Suddenly embarrassed, Clarke steps back. Her face feels hot and prickly. This is the most she has ever verbalised and she's starting to feel foolish, 'I should go.' she mutters, jerking her head at the board with its surface of pinned up papers, 'Let you get back to work. Sorry for dropping by unannounced.'

'No problem.' Lincoln says softly, 'Feel free to drop by anytime.'

Clarke turns to flee but is halted when Octavia calls her name.

The brunette cocks her head. 'You really think my brother doesn't like you?'

Clarke laughs, a confused, helpless sound. 'I don't know. I just - I don't know.'

Octavia and Lincoln glance at each other and Clarke just wants to leave.

She turns again to go. 'I'll see -'

'That day I dropped by at the station?' Octavia interrupts, 'The day I gave you my card. I came to see Bellamy, remember?'

Boy, did she.

'Vividly.' Clarke mutters and waves a hand when Octavia grimaces. 'It's fine.'

Octavia's eyes turn again to Lincoln, inhaling, and she seems to come to a decision. Her eyes return to Clarke. 'Kelsie Morgan.'

Clarke searches her memory but she comes up blank. 'Sorry,' she says, starting to shake her head, 'I don't know who -'

'You should.' Lincoln says, 'That's the name her aunt wants to give her but you and Monty delivered her. Post-mortem Caesarean. Saved her life.'

Shock ripples through Clarke. 'How did you -' she stops, mind whirling, and she knows. 'You were the ones who tracked down her family.'

'Her mom's cousin, yeah.' Octavia nods, 'The day I came down to the station, we had finally gotten word about her. It took a while before Lincoln and I were actually able to go down and see her, talk to her.' she lifts a shoulder, grinning, 'She's a preschool teacher whose students draw her stuff that she sticks to her fridge with Sponge Bob magnets.' she sobers, 'We got a feel for her and we really think Kelsie's going to a good home, Clarke.'

There's a stone lodged in her throat and Clarke's so caught up in the relief, the gratitude that she almost forgets to ask. But then a memory of her and Bellamy walking down a corridor slips into her mind.

_'Is she okay?'_ he had asked.

But how did he even know her gender to begin with?

And she finally gets it.

‘You came down to the station,’ Clarke says, dazed, ‘to tell –‘

'Bellamy, yeah. He reached out.' Octavia says quietly, 'You were distraught and -.' she stops, pressing her lips together, 'He reached out.'

_You will have everything I am at your back_ , a voice reminds Clarke and she closes her eyes, willing the tears back.

The last time she had heard those words, Bellamy had been walking away from her, a dark figure in the halls of the Maternity Ward, and she had been grief-stricken and sick at herself.

She hadn't believed the words then.

Clarke clings to Bellamy's - Vulcan's - voice, the promise in his words.

And she will protect him the way he has her.

The way Vulcan protects Venus and she, him.

For once, Clarke doesn't push aside any thought, any comparison of her and Bellamy to the figures haunting her dreams. This time, she lets the part of her soul that Venus exists in, guide her.

She opens her eyes, meets Octavia and Lincoln's gaze, 'Whatever you guys need from me.' she repeats, 'No boundaries.'

Octavia grins, a sword's honed blade. 'Done.'

Clarke takes a deep breath and releases it shakily. She nods at them once more and her eyes are drawn to the board behind them again. She stills, focusing on a row of pages pinned to the board, numbers in neat rows, red Sharpie circling figures up and down the rows.

Clarke frowns, moving closer.

'What is it?' Octavia asks, standing as Clarke passes her to stand in front of the board.

'What are these?' she asks, staring at a red circled number.

She asks but she already knows and dread begins to bubble in her pit of her stomach.

'Phone records.' Lincoln says, coming to join her. He taps a page with a long finger, 'We're already running them. Might be able to come up with something workable by end of day.' He glances at her and his head goes back. 'Clarke?'

'You look like you've seen a ghost.' Octavia says, her eyes flicking between Clarke and the page she was staring at.

Feels about right.

Her head spins.

'You know one of these numbers, Clarke?' Lincoln asks quietly.

Clarke stares up at the digits, innocuous and innocent.

'Yes.' she finally says, dead inside, 'Yes. I do.'

****

'Why were you calling Cage?'

Lexa's eyes widen, face going white. Her lips part but she can't seem to talk.

Clarke's stomach drops to her feet.

Drops to bounce on the tiled floor outside Lexa's apartment door where she had gone straight after leaving the station. She had hammered a fist into the wood until Lexa yanked open the door.

'Please tell me,' Clarke tries, past the nausea, to give her an out, 'that you weren't involved in his shit.'

Lexa wets dry lips. 'Clarke, I can explain. Let me explain.'

'Tell me you're not involved.' she pushes.

_Tell me you’re not part of how Bellamy's past has been dug up to be thrown in his face._

'Clarke -'

'Just tell me, Lexa!' her voice rings in the hallway, harsh and angry.

_Tell me I haven’t trusted the wrong person - that that trust isn't the reason Bellamy is suffering._

Lexa closes her eyes. 'I can't.'

The betrayal is heavy enough to drop her shoulders and Clarke wraps her arms around her stomach because she's sure her breakfast is going to end up on the shiny tiled floor.

This again.

Only this time, it's worse.

'Clarke, let me explain, please.' Lexa begs quietly, 'Just come in.'

'No.' Clarke doesn't move, even when another door opens down the hall. She's past caring. 'We're going to deal with this now.'

Lexa exhales heavily. 'The Department is going through budget cuts, okay?' she says, 'They're looking to shut down Firehouses and -'

'I know about the budget cuts.' Clarke interrupts.

'Okay fine, but did you know 12 is on that list?'

Things start to make sense and Clarke's stomach tightens.

'What have you been telling Cage?' she asks as her vision narrows.

'Nothing much.'

'What, Lexa?' she snaps, voice rising.

'Just - just who you talk about the most.' the brunette confesses quietly, 'The people you mention the most. Just my opinions about you and -'

Clarke's mind blanks as she tries to remember how much she had given Lexa since the day they met.

Raven.

Monty.

Oh god, Bellamy.

Bellamy who had always been present since the day she and Lexa first spoke.

Why does she continue to trust the wrong people?

'You cut a deal with Cage to spy on me?' Clarke asks hoarsely, 'On my friends?'

'No, I cut a deal with Cage to save my house.' Lexa says, voice sharpening, 'He calls me after we met at the restaurant and gave me an offer. He's an asshole but he's an asshole with a lot of pull. I do this and he'll make sure 12 doesn’t get closed down. I had to, Clarke.' her eyes flash, steel bleeding in, 'You don't understand - 12 is all I have. I care about you - more than you know - but AFD is going to break the house up and relocate everyone. I did what I had to, to save my family.'

'By selling out mine.' Clarke returns harshly, 'You're helping Cage back Bellamy into a corner.' she shakes her head, backing away, rage and fear coursing hot and heavy in her blood, 'And after Bellamy, Cage might turn to the rest of 82. You helping him shut us down.'

'Yeah.' Lexa lifts her chin, mouth set, 'Yeah, I am. But you would have done the same thing.'

Her anger sparks to dangerous levels.

Clarke steps forward, struggling to keep her voice low, 'The hell I would have.'

'Wouldn't you?' Lexa challenges, 'If you had a chance to save everyone you loved, even if it meant giving up others, wouldn't you take the chance?' her brow lifts, 'You would, Clarke.'

She wouldn't.

Would she?

'You don't know that.' Clarke says but her voice trembles.

'Listen to yourself.' Lexa says quietly, her eyes glinting. 'You're hesitating because you know the truth.' she pauses, 'And the truth is you would have sacrificed an entire house to save one of your own, starting with Bellamy Blake.'

Thrown, Clarke scrambles, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. 'This isn't about him!'

‘Maybe not all of it,’ Lexa snaps, ‘but I’m not blind, Clarke!’

'I -' Clarke stops, Lexa’s words echoes in her mind and god, she doesn't even have to dig that deep.

In fact, she isn't even that surprised because between the nights she spends loving him and the days she spends getting to understand him, the knowledge is there.

The comprehension is terrifying.

'Yes, you're starting to understand.' Lexa murmurs.

Clarke's eyes rise to see the brunette's gaze on her, studying her intently.

‘I recognise that look you get whenever you talk about Bellamy because I've seen it before. In the mirror.' her voice tightens, 'So don't pretend you wouldn't have made the same choice I did. Like recognises like.'

No.

‘You’re wrong.’ Clarke opens her eyes, ‘You meant something to me. And I don’t betray those I care about.’

Nothing can undo what Lexa has done. Nothing can soothe Lexa's betrayal. No amount of words is going to change the fact that she screwed up and trusted the wrong person again.

The damage has been already done.

She breathes out unsteadily, sets her jaw and steps back. 'Good bye, Lexa.'

She's done.

Then Clarke turns and walks away, her lungs burning with the acrid taste of betrayal and fear, her heart an angry bruise on her chest.

She doesn't look back and even when the lift doors open then close behind her, she continues to stare at the panelled elevator wall.

How the fuck does she keep getting herself into these kinds of messes?

Her vision shimmers around the edges, a telltale darkness begins seeping into her sight of the wall.

'Shit.' Clarke hisses before her hand shoots out to grip the handle bar.

_'You are not being smart.'_

_Venus stares up at the god glaring down at her._

_'I have made my choice.' she reminds him icily._

_'No one expects you to remain faithful.'  
_

_'And yet I will remain faithful.' Venus snaps and the air sparks with the violence in her voice, 'Perhaps I did not make myself clear. I will not forsake my husband.'_

_'You are pitied.' Mars entreats, 'The deity of love and desire and she is pitied by slaves.' he shakes his head, 'Goddess -'_

_But he has said the wrong thing because that name belongs to Vulcan._

_Venus yanks her arm out of Mars' grip. 'Let them soak in their misconceptions for it is I who pity them.' she steps up to him, 'I have made my choice and I revel in it.' she tilts her head, 'They will never understand Vulcan and they are poorer for it._ You _are poorer for it.' she smiles now, 'But I? With him, I have the cosmos in the palm of my hand.'_

_Mars shakes his head and finally, he steps back. 'You are lost.'_

_Venus laughs, a husky sound that echoes around the pillars surrounding them._

_'Perhaps.' she says lightly as she steps away, 'But lost or found, I choose Vulcan.' she spares Mars one last look over her shoulder, 'I will always choose Vulcan.'_

Clarke surfaces from the vision, fingers still wrapped tight around the handle bar.

She presses shaking fingers to her eyes.

God, she needs a drink.

****

A glass, its dark depths glimmering a deep red, is pushed into her line of sight.

Clarke looks up from the glass of wine to see Gina, framed by multicoloured bottles of alcohol on their glass shelves, winking in the soft light.

'On the house.' the bartender says quietly, 'Something tells me you need it.'

Girl makes it hard to dislike her, Clarke thinks wryly then cringes, shame prickling her skin.

Despite her head already going fuzzy, she downs the remaining wine in her glass and pushes it away, reaching for the new one Gina had poured her.

'Thanks.' Clarke murmurs, offering the other woman a smile.

Gina leans into the bar, elbows to polished wood, bronze hair waving around her shoulders. 'Do you wanna talk about it?' When Clarke looks at her, startled, the brunette shrugs casually but her amber eyes are kind. 'I don't like seeing my patrons sad drunk if there's anything I can do about it.'

Yeah, Clarke thinks again but this time with a genuine smile, girl makes it impossible to dislike her.

Before she could reply however, her neck prickles and she looks over her shoulder to see Bellamy stepping into the bar, bomber jacket, white t-shirt, jeans.

Dread, guilt, confusion, pain, _desire_ flood into the hollow of her stomach, mixing dangerously with the wine.

Clarke turns back around but she can't meet Gina's eyes.

She really should leave because the concoction in her stomach is poisonous and just the sight of Bellamy is almost enough to break the walls that are keeping her numb and - god, how could she have been so fucking blind?

She had trusted Finn and had hurt Raven.

She trusted Lexa and now has endangered Bellamy, endangered Raven, endangered her friends.

And Bellamy - her feelings for him are messy and painful and confusing and shit, Vulcan - and maybe she's losing her mind. But even if she wasn't, he was with Gina - Gina with her gorgeous smile and her kind heart and she doesn’t want him to break it off but - she stops, her mind churning wildly,

_But?_

Is she really that selfish?

God, what is wrong with her?

Why does everything she touches turns to ash?

Why does she screw up things for anyone she feels _anything_ for? Or the alternative is that they knife her in the back because she's just so fucking blind.

Maybe Lexa was right. This is why it’s easier to just be numb.

A familiar warmth grows across her back and Clarke tilts her glass back, swallowing wine so quickly her eyes start tearing.

God, she's such a mess.

'Griffin.'

Bellamy moves in next to Clarke and she tries to ignore the warmth radiating off his skin. He'd taken off his jacket sometime between the door and the bar and his hair still looks wet from the shower.

Clarke grits her teeth and tries to forget that she knows what his hair feels like between her fingers - in dreams anyway. 'Blake.'

'And here I was,' Gina smiles wryly, 'thinking you two didn't like each other.'

'It's complicated.' Bellamy mutters at the same time Clarke mutters out an eloquent, 'Fuck no.'

Ignoring Bellamy stiffening beside her, Clarke laughs, bitter and harsh, 'Complicated?' she sneers delicately, ‘Should have pulled back on one of those saves then, Bellamy. Saved yourself a little _complication_.’

The silence that follows is heavy.

'Laying it on a little thick, Griffin?' Bellamy replies, almost hesitant.

Wary.

'Am I?' she spins in her seat to look at him fully for the first time, 'Am I really?'

His eyes move across her face and as they study her, they begin to narrow.

Clarke struggles to pull down the surfacing storm under her skin but it’s too late.

'What's wrong?' Bellamy asks, sharp, as his eyes continue to scan her face.

What’s not wrong, honestly?

But she looks at Bellamy and all the resentment she thought she had let go of, all the times he had hurt her, all his cutting words, all those memories surge up, choking her. The hurt joins the rage and helplessness of Lexa’s betrayal, a betrayal that triggers the memory of Finn’s own, her head’s spinning, and she’s drowning, drowning, drow -

'You - people like you just take what they want.' Clarke lashes out, ignoring the way Bellamy’s head jerks back as she throws his own words back at him, 'Don't you?' she flicks a hand at him, 'Brave hero, pretty face, silver tongue and we’re the fuckers dumb enough to keep falling for your shit, over and over again.'

'What the fuck, Clarke -'

'I know your type.’ she barrels right over him, ‘I know that you'll take what you want and then move on - you'll just take and keep taking until you've drained us dry. You're just like them - all polish on the outside and nothing but poison inside.'

She finally stops, deep breathing, her ears ringing.

What has she done?

Gina's white as a sheet and she's staring down at the dish-cloth in her hand. She's focusing so hard on that towel and determinedly not looking at either of them and -

Bellamy's face has turned to stone and Clarke knows what she had just done.

What she just threw at Bellamy was unfair and cruel and Clarke sways under the guilt and shame that crashes into her with the force of a truck.

Her chest feels tight and hard and hot and she hates it - hates that she had just insulted and hurt Bellamy, hates Finn and Lexa for making the decisions they had made, hates herself for believing them and letting herself fall for it, hates that she cares that Bellamy is with someone else.

Clarke steps back, shaking, her eyes burning.

She needs to get out of the bar.

'I - I...'

Her voice dies.

She fucked up and she should apologise but that hot, acid green streak in her burns the words right off her tongue.

Clarke throws Gina a pleadingly apologetic look as she's backing up but she can’t even meet Bellamy’s gaze. She spins on her heel, heads straight for the door.

At the corner of her eye, Raven rises from her seat after her, but Clarke doesn't stop, just keeps going until she breaks out the door and into the night.

Standing on the pavement, head spinning from regret, hurt and the alcohol, Clarke gulps down mouthfuls of the icy wind. The cold helps to ground her, helps to clear her head but she almost regrets it because the unfairness, the cruelty and the stupidity of what she had done becomes even more obvious.

'Hey!'

Her spine snaps tight and she spins to see Bellamy slamming out of the bar.

He's furious as he rocks to a stop in front of her - furious enough not to bother putting his jacket back on before coming after her, impervious to the cold on his bare arms. She turns to face him fully, trying to stamp down the betrayal that slashes through her.

_He does not owe you a thing_ , the rational part of her brain reminds her harshly, _you owe him an apology_.

But she's pissed and hurt and not entirely sober and it’s just really hard to concentrate right now.

'What the hell was that in there?' he snaps, rocking to a stop in front of her.

She shakes her head mutely, stepping back.

'You wanna go off at me, go ahead. I can take you.' he invites harshly, spreading his arms, 'But something’s got you -'

'It’s nothing.' she says, almost desperate.

Please let it go.

'Clarke.' he snaps.

How can he put so many meanings into the single syllable of her name?

'I'm sorry -' _god, Bellamy, I'm so sorry_ , '- for what I said.’ she throws out, near frantic, ‘I am. I didn't - it's not true, what I said, it's not what I think about you. I'm sorry.' she steps back again, 'And I'll come by tomorrow night and apologise to Gina, okay?’ she doesn’t see the confusion that crosses his face as she twists her fingers, ‘But right now, I need to -'

Get away from you.

' - to go.' she finishes.

His face softens unexpectedly and she thought that would be easier but she finds that that’s even harder to bear.

She can't handle him being nice to her when she has just fucked up and she can't take him into her arms to apologise. She doesn’t even deserve to.

She can't handle the worry that pinches the skin between his eyebrows when she doesn't have the right to smooth it away with her thumb - when he can't stand to have her touch him. She can't handle even just the sight of him, standing there with the glow of the streetlights on his shoulders and gilding his hair.

Because all those thoughts just remind her that while she knows what it feels to have his arms hold her, while she knows the taste of him, the warmth of him, she could never experience it while awake.

It hurts her in a way nothing has ever hurt her and she is sick and tired of feeling hurt.

Maybe the right thing to do, after all, was to go cold.

'What's going on, Clarke?' Bellamy asks quietly, forcing her eyes back to him. He takes a step forward, eyes intent on her, 'Something's eating you up inside.'

An ugly, twisted parody of a laugh slices into the air, quickly dying when Clarke realises in horror that it was coming from her.

He hates her, right? Sometimes she thinks he doesn’t but he’s proven her wrong time and time again and it’s unfair that someone who hates her can read her so well.

'Clarke -'

'It's nothing.' she bites out again, swallowing the bile and the words, the guilt that crawls up her throat.

Bellamy's face softens even further and he takes a step towards her. The thought of him close - when she aches for his arms around her - sends a bolt of panic to her heart. She'll never be able to walk away from him if he touches her.

She has to make him stop.

'It's my fault, okay?' she snaps, the night blurring through alcohol and gathering tears, 'It's my fault.'

Bellamy takes another step, eyes still locked on hers, the timbre of his voice soothing. 'What is?'

She closes her eyes.

Bellamy in this mess.

The problems 82 is having.

Wells.

'Clarke.' Bellamy's voice is a gentle rumble on the night wind, compassionate, comforting.

He has to stop.

'Lexa has been feeding Cage information, okay?' she throws at him and watches him freeze, 'Information about you, about everyone at the house - information that I've been giving her.' Frustration, guilt and rage turns her voice raw, 'It's my fault we even got into this mess and now it's my fault that he has more to build a case against 82 and -' she sucks in a breath, hands going up to fist in her hair, mind spinning, 'It's my fault.'

Bellamy's face registers shock, fury, disbelief. Then his eyes close as his hands curl into fists at his side, mouth hardening. His chest expands as he breathes in and Clarke knows this is it.

She flashes back to that day in the hallway, the day he warned her about Cage coming after them. She stares numbly at his boots. This is Bellamy before he turns his back on her for what she has done to his family.

And even as her heart breaks, she knows it’s for the best.

'Let's go back inside, Clarke.'

Her head jerks up at Bellamy's quiet words. He looks back at her steadily and his eyes are tired and while they still snap with temper, the weight of his gaze is gentle and comforting.

Clarke falters. 'Didn't you hear -'

'I heard you.' he acknowledges with a stiff nod, 'Come inside, yeah?'

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go, she thinks as terror burns the walls of her mouth. 'Cage is going to have one hell of a case against 82.'

'I got that.'

'It might be strong enough to convince the Board to close down the firehouse.'

'I heard you the first time.' Impatience is starting to bleed into his voice.

She ignores the warning shake of his head, 'Because I -'

'Clarke, can we please go back to the fucking bar?'

But she keeps pushing. 'How can you be okay with this?'

'What do you want me to say?' Bellamy finally snaps, 'It's _done_. Who cares how it happened? It happened, Clarke.' he cards a hand through his hair roughly and blows out a breath, 'The only thing we can do now,' he continues, visibly reining himself in, 'is figure out a way to stop it from getting worse.' his eyes flick up to hers, 'Together.'

_Together._

The word sets off her heart with the promise it offers because it's _Bellamy_ who is offering. She knows that if she lets him in, he'll be able to hurt her in a way no one else can and she – she panics at the almost overwhelming desire to just let him in.

She panics and in it, she lashes out again.

'I don't need your pity - I don't need anything from you.' she says, strident and harsh, the lie bitter as hemlock on her tongue, 'I don't need _you_ , Bellamy.'

When his face goes hard and cold, she knows her words have finally struck hard and deep.

She wants to take it back, take everything back and if she could, she would. Because, goddamn it, she's lying through her teeth now but she needs to be cold and she can't do that when he's around -

'You know what?' Bellamy mutters, jaw tight, 'You're right. You don't need me.' he steps back, eyes cutting, 'You don't need anyone. You're so busy trying to make sure nothing gets past those fucking walls, you can't see where you're going.'

The truth stings but all she says is, 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

'Really.' Bellamy quietly states, 'You spend so much time in your head, protecting yourself from getting hurt. You think I can't see it?' his eyes raze her frozen figure, 'The way you hesitated when Miller invited you to The Dalmatian that first time? The way you were trying to keep Raven at arm's length your first week at the house? Except what you didn't know was, _no one_ can stop Raven once she gets going and she wanted in with you. I saw it all, Clarke.' he laughs shortly, 'But if you keep rebuilding those walls, one day you'll wake up and realise there is no one else left to protect yourself from.'

She sees red. 'I’ve got a lot to protect myself from.'

Bellamy opens his mouth, halts when she throws out an arm at him.

'Like judgmental assholes.’ she continues pointedly, that familiar hurt and fury heaving up again, and his mouth tightens, ‘From the moment I set foot in the building, you've been on my back, second guessing me at every turn - '

'Every turn?' he repeats, eyes narrowed, 'Hey, look, I'll own my mistakes - and you're right, when you first came in, I fucked up.' he shook his head, frustrated, 'But tell me, _tell me_ , when I've held back on you in the field since Oppen Bridge.'

'I -' Clarke falters when she realises he was right.

Because since that day, Bellamy had always backed her play.

_What are you going to say now?_

_He hurt your feelings simply because he didn't like you? Because his walls are only up when it comes to you?_

Still -

'You said I didn't belong.'

When the words slip out before she could stop them, her voice small, the hurt glaringly loud, Clarke looks away, cursing herself for being so transparent, so weak.

She looks away and doesn’t see that Bellamy closes his eyes at the memory, the regret that bleeds into his features.

'I was wrong.' he says quietly.

A short laugh rasps out of her. 'I'm an asset, I get it.'

'Jesus Christ, Clarke.' Bellamy steps away, shoving a hand in his hair. 'That wasn't -'

'That wasn’t what you said?’ Clarke whispers numbly, the wound open and raw, ‘That the only reason you sav -'

'No, goddamn it,' he snarls, spinning around to face her, 'I lied!'  


His words hang in the icy air and that - _that_ \- finally penetrates the months of pent-up hurt and frustration.

And between one breath and the other, the wind changes.

They look at each other on that sidewalk and there's a different type of tension thrumming between them now.

Clarke feels like she's sinking into quick-sand because suddenly the tone of their argument has changed and it has become heavier and deeper and intimately more dangerous.

'Were you happy with her?' Bellamy asks suddenly, tearing his gaze away, a muscle ticking in jaw.

Clarke doesn't need to ask who he's talking about. She should tell him that it's none of his business but the thing is, it feels like it is. Because if Vulcan had asked -

'I never got the time to really get to know her.' she confesses, throat dry. Then lifting her shoulders helplessly, 'For a while, yes.'

_But it was you I saw in my dreams_ , she thinks but doesn't say, _it was you who lay by my side in sleep._

Bellamy nods, chin jerking once, gaze still locked across the street. 'I'm sorry she hurt you.'

Clarke breathes deep at that because he actually meant it and a sweet ache spreads across her chest.

She opens her mouth to say thank you and –

'Are _you_ happy?'

Bellamy's body jerks at the question that had slipped from her lips.

Clarke's eyes widen because she did _not_ mean to say that and maybe she could pretend she meant something else but his head turns towards her and no - Bellamy knows exactly what she's asking.

'I -' he hesitates, gaze moving across her face.

At first Clarke thinks he isn’t going to answer but then Bellamy draws in a breath, shoulders rising and falling as he comes to a decision.

‘Gina and I,’ Bellamy shoves his hands into his pockets, looks down at the cracked pavement under his boots, ‘we called it off. About two weeks ago now.’

Shock. Relief. Fear.

The emotions clash and war and she's too distracted by them to pay attention to the timing.

‘I’m sorry.’ she manages.

_Liar._

‘Don’t be.’ he says, corner of his mouth lifting, ‘It was the right call. We’re not the same people we were before and Gina – she’s a smart woman.’ he ducks his head, 'She's great and I - I was, Clarke. Happy.’

She nods, silent.

'But -' Bellamy stops. Looks up at her.

But what?

He doesn't finish his sentence.

Just stands there as the wind dances in his hair, stands there looking at her, in boots, jeans and a thin t-shirt, a thousand words in his gaze and not one Clarke can fully understand yet.

There's a glimmer in his onxy eyes and Clarke's belly starts to tighten.

Even if her mind can't read the look in them, can't read the emotions that tauten his features, her heart can.

Her heart _remembers_ and it tells her of the pain and nostalgia and confusion that bleed through Bellamy's eyes.

But she can't do anything about it, right?

Not the way she wants to.

She can't move towards him, twine her arms around his neck, press herself into him and tell him to kiss her, tell him that if he did, maybe things would fall into place. And there's a breathless moment during which Bellamy's mouth tightens and he looks like he's going to do exactly what she's feeling. 

But then he doesn't and she doesn't either and the moment is lost and gone.  


So, they stand there on the pavement of an empty street, looking at each other, fear and stubbornness a razor sharp rift, a thousand unspoken words between them, a millennia separating them.

'Clarke -' Bellamy closes his eyes and shakes his head. What he's about to say is lost as he blows out a frustrated laugh instead. Then, 'Come inside, please?'

She wants to. God, she wants to go with him. But -

This is terrifying.

She gives in this time, when will she ever be strong enough to walk away again?

'I can't.' she says quietly, suddenly and utterly drained. 'I should go home. I -' she lifts a shoulder, 'I think I've had enough.'

Bellamy stills, falling silent.

But no, she's lying.

She's running away.

And her feet is telling her to move _now_ and _fast_ because Clarke is starting to realise just how much the notion of Gina and Lexa had been a protective shield for her. Now, that's no longer true and the only thing that separates her and giving in to this is her own fear.

A fear that just might not be as strong as this pull she has to Bellamy.

'Alright.' he finally says, gentle. He shifts on his feet and she can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy against her skin. 'I'll wait with you.'

Clarke doesn't protest because even if she is terrified, even if they have a thousand problems, even if they had just been yelling at each other, in this moment, she can't refuse.

She knows it’s foolish, that she's going to get hurt, that she's better off cold, that she's better off staying away from him but god, it's hard when he's standing there looking at her like that, soft and sad.

So she doesn't protest and they don't talk after she makes the call, not even when her cab pulls up to the curb and she's slipping inside with a glance at him.

She gives her address to the driver and as the car pulls away, she looks back.

For the first time, she looks back.

Bellamy's still standing on that sidewalk, watching her disappear from sight.

And how ironic is it that she’s running from him yet it feels like Bellamy is closer to her than ever before?

****

She can’t stop shivering.

The ambo is deathly quiet except for the sound of the engine and the occasional squawk of their radio.

Monty doesn't try to call her back when she swings out of the ambo before the engine is even cut and she's grateful.

They're the first ones to reach the station and she's almost running through the empty firehouse.

She strips off her damp clothes and in the shower, she stands with her face under the spray, the sound of rushing water drowning out every other sound except the rapid beat of her heart.

She wishes the water could drown out the memory of Charlotte's small hand in hers, the memory of her eyes dimming as the life faded from them.

When the first sob wracked her body, Clarke wrapped her arms around herself to hold it in.

She has lost a child before during a call. It's not easy when any life is lost but it's always worse when it's a child.

This time, though, this time the pain dug claws into her heart and wrenched it right out of her chest.

Her mind knows that she couldn’t have done more but her damn heart doesn't understand yet.

Maybe it's because when she saw Bellamy carrying her out of the river, she had thought Charlotte was going to be okay, had pinned her hopes on that. It was stupid and foolish and everything her training had taught her not to do. You can never tell with children and you can never be too cautious.

Maybe it's the memory of Charlotte's mother sobbing in the background and the sound of her father's desperate pleas to keep going, their helpless horror as they stood there and watched their little girl die.

Maybe it's the thought that that slight body will never be more, that now-quiet mind will never mature, those closed eyes will never see the sun again, the possibility of the person Charlotte could have been was lost to the world.

Maybe it's because Clarke woke up that morning, arms aching for the sweet weight of a baby, Vulcan’s laugh vibrating against her neck, promising her as many children as she wanted.

Whatever the cause, the pain drives Clarke to the floor and she sits there, head on her raised knees, shutting out the rest of the world and mourns a little girl she couldn't save.

When the tears have dried and only the emptiness remained, Clarke finally turns off the shower. The low rumble of voices somewhere in the bathroom stills her arm as she reaches for her towel.

Everyone must have returned by now.

Clarke slumps against the wall in relief with the sound of the door opening and closing, the voices fading.

She steps out, rounds the corner and jerks to a stop when she sees that not everyone had left the showers.

Bellamy's the last person she wants to see right now but there he is, leaning hard into the sink, arms braced on the counter, head down, in front of the wall-to-wall mirror.

He had obviously just finished from the showers too, hair gleaming wet under the lights. She would have been distracted by the fact that he only has a towel wrapped around his hips or the black tendrils of his tattoo covering the expanse of his back but her attention is caught by something else.

The slump of his shoulders and the hang of his head.

Bellamy looks defeated.

Clarke shifts on her feet, not knowing what to do. She wants to go to him, to lay her hand on his arm and to repeat to him, 'We can't save everyone.' She wants to lay her head on his shoulder, to offer him comfort in solidarity.

But she can’t.

So instead, she squares her shoulders and walks over to his other side.

It’s only a couple of days since their fight outside the Dalmatian, since Clarke had given away more than she had planned, since Bellamy had given her a confession that haunted her with its uncertainty and possibility.

Since then, she has been avoiding him.

And Bellamy, displaying his uncanny ability to read her, has been quiet around her. He hasn’t even brought up Cage again.

Out of the corner of her eye, in the mirror's reflection, Bellamy's head turns in her direction. She doesn't look at him, concentrates on collecting her toiletries on the sink.

'I'll be out of your way in a minute.' Clarke says quietly, throwing her tube of body wash into her toiletry bag.

Silence.

Then he laughs softly, bitterness turning the edges of the sound jagged. 'Jesus, have I been that much of an asshole to you?'

Her hand stills mid-air and Clarke glances up.

In the mirror, his eyes meet hers as he stays braced against the sink, shoulders and corded arms tight, supporting his weight. His gaze is bright and hard. It flicks over her face and his jaw tightens as it lingers on her swollen eyes.

'You okay?' he asks quietly instead of waiting for an answer.

The question is a soothing caress sliding through her pain-spiked veins.

Clarke breathes in.

Nods.

'I will be.' she picks up her brush, stares at it unseeingly, 'Sometimes I really suck at this distancing yourself thing. You saw that at the Maternity Ward.'

_Ask him._

_Ask him about Kelsie._

_Ask him why he did it._

She would, but she’s afraid of his answer.

She’s so sick of this façade, this fear of Bellamy and her feelings for him.

She’s so tired of running from him.

'You'll get through it. You're stronger than this.'

Clarke looks up at the harshness of his voice. His face is hard and unrelenting and she realises with a jolt that he believes every word he had said about her.

'And if you feel like you're slipping,' Bellamy roughly continues, 'you reach out, yeah?' he pauses, eyes scanning her face, 'You don't have to do this alone.'

_You don't have do this alone._

She closes her eyes as the words sink in into her flesh. No, she doesn't have to do this alone. She has people now.

'Yeah.' she whispers into the silence.

Then she opens her eyes and sees the haggard lines of his face under the light, the red rims of his eyes. She hesitates, placing the brush into the toiletry bag with careful fingers.

'Are you okay?' she murmurs, keeping her eyes on her hands as they flip close the lid.

He's quiet for so long that Clarke wonders if she's overstepping this fragile andante they've found in the wake of tragedy.

'I keep waiting for it to get easier.'

Her attention snaps back up to him.

Bellamy hasn't moved but in the mirror his eyes go blurry and unfocused as his gaze turns inwards, his brows drawing down slightly.

'It doesn't get easier.' he continues almost absently, 'We do what we can and move on. It's the only way to survive in this job.' his gaze sharpens back into focus, trains on her, 'But moving on doesn’t get any easier, don't matter how long you've been doing this.' his jaw clenches, 'She was just a kid.'

'I know.' she whispers to his reflection, chest hurting.

'If she was mine, I'd -' his voice breaks and a muscle jumps in his jaw, 'I'd be clawing the walls.'

The words hit too close to home, too close to the messy churn of emotions in her belly and her own voice is hoarse as she whispers, 'I know, Bellamy.’

Vision blurring, she meets his wet eyes in the mirror.

And before she knew it, Clarke reaches out and places her hand over his clenched fist on the counter.

The heat of his skin under her fingers surges up her arm and into her chest.

At her touch, his head drops as if he no longer had the strength to hold it up and his big body shudders. His face turns, looks down at her hand, stares at it, and that muscle in his jaw ripples again.

Too late, she remembers his aversion to her touch and, chest constricting, yanks her hand away. ‘I’m sorr –‘

Bellamy’s hand flashes up, capturing her hand, fingers wrapping around hers, bringing their entwined fingers back down to rest on the counter.

His grip is tight and he holds her hand like he’ll never let it go, grasps it like it’s a life-line.

Clarke stares at their clasped fingers, confusion, heartache and a distant sense of jubilation flashing through her.

She knows that this is dangerous for her, having him open up to her, wanting to open up to him.

But from the day they met, Bellamy had always been her strange magnetic north.

The dreams made it hard to distance herself. The man she was learning he was, made it a battle. This - this unexpected bonding and mourning of a child and who that child might have been, giving and taking comfort, offering absolution because no one else will offer it - this pushed her task of keeping herself distanced from him into the impossible.

She grips his hand harder, feels the tears slide down her cheeks.

'Maybe,' she says haltingly, 'the day we find it easy to move on is the day we should give up the uniform.'

Bellamy's gaze returns to her in the mirror. He studies her and his eyes soften, making her breath catch. Then he tilts his chin up in a nod. 'Maybe.'

She sucks in a breath, bites her lip. His hair is drying fast, already starting to curl, and she wants to reach up and tangle her fingers in them. His mouth is soft, his dark eyes gentle and tired and everything she's trying to contain in her chest is fighting to get out.

She needs to leave before she gets in deeper than she already was.

Despite the drop in her belly, Clarke allows herself to squeeze his hand one last time, picks up her bag and makes her escape.

She has one hand on the door handle when her neck prickles and another hand, long fingered and wide palmed, catches her wrist.

His touch stills her effectively as the heat from his fingers seeps into her blood, her veins carrying their warmth to her heart.

No.

'Clarke.'

She squeezes her eyes tight. She has heard that tone before under a silk canopy with her limbs wrapped around his - velvet soft with the grit of smoke. She can't -

'Clarke, look at me.'

Oh god, how can she do that without telling him everything?

'Please.'

It's the quiet request behind the word that has her complying.

He's closer than she thought - close enough that she can smell the soap on his skin, close enough that his shoulders and throat fill her line of sight. She hurriedly looks up and realises that was worse than looking at his bared skin because that mirror was one hell of a buffer.

Because the moment her eyes lock with his with nothing between them, the warmth in her blood turns to fire.

'What.' she whispers.

He tilts his head and she wishes he wouldn't because a drop of water falls from his hair onto the skin of the wrist he's still holding and Clarke doesn't know how much more sensation she can take without breaking.

'I've been a dick to you.' he murmurs, eyes moving across her face, 'You sure as fuck didn't deserve it.' he dips his head until she's all but drowning in his eyes, 'I'm sorry.'

Why? Why did he have to do this now?

Now when she's already raw, when she's already feeling open and exposed, why did it have to be now?

Now, when the memory of Vulcan's smile, his soft eyes, his touch is still fresh in her mind from that morning? When the heat from Bellamy’s fingers is still branding her hand?

'Yeah well,' she sucks in a breath, tries to push humour into the tension crawling under her skin, 'I've been kind of a bitch back so...'

'Can't say I didn't earn that side of your tongue.' he murmurs and the scarred corner of his lip pulls up in a half-smile.

Clarke's heart trips because there's hardly a rare sight more beautiful than Bellamy Blake smiling and having him smiling only inches away from her blurs the warning in her brain.

Bellamy's eyes are directly on hers and they haven't dropped below her neck but Clarke becomes uncomfortably aware of the water beading her bare shoulders, her wet hair against her back, the flimsy knot between her breasts that holds her towel up.

She presses her lips together and resists the urge to press a hand to the knot to keep it together.

His eyes drop to her mouth at her movement and her throat goes dry when his smile slips, face going hard and that muscle in his jaw jumps again.

Time stops.

She knows that look.

Has seen it time and time again in a dreamscape. Has seen it on the face of a god as he rises above her, his hips in the cradle of her own. Has seen it as he lies under her, her knees planted in the bedding against his side.

She knows that look and it has never failed to take her by the throat, dizzying in its strength.

And just like in her dreams, she's lost.

Oh god, she can’t fight this anymore.

She _doesn’t_ want to.

'Clarke.'

Bellamy's whisper is soft on her lips and his hand tightens on her wrist. She hums in acknowledgement, swaying towards him.

The twist of his lips is wry, a little desperate. 'You gotta stop looking at me like that.'

Under his fingers, her tattooed wrist begins to warm and his pupils dilate when her tongue darts out to wet dry lips.

She shakes her head slowly. 'I can't.'

It's the truth and it's a helpless confession and she couldn't stop the words even if she tried.

Something in her clicks into place.

Then Bellamy's yanking her forward by the wrist and she pitches towards him, her other hand hitting him in the chest as she steadies herself against him.

They're pressed against each other and the look in his eyes - dark, needy, sharp - locks her knees. She wonders dimly if Bellamy can feel the thundering of her heart.

But then he tilts his head, angles down, his mouth barely a whisper away from hers and she stops thinking, frozen in the moment his lips hover over hers.

Slowly, holding her eyes, Bellamy closes the scant distance.

His lips brush hers, softly, gently, barely there.

Electricity crackles under her skin, her nerve endings tingling, the rush flowing from her lips, down her neck and into her spine.

Her hand slides up to his shoulder and it tightens on his flesh as he does it again. Her eyes drift close, her lips part under his, Bellamy makes a rough sound, deep in his throat and -

The kiss deepens, descends straight into heat with a speed that leaves her breathless.

At the first touch of his tongue to hers, Clarke's hand shoves into his hair, holding him to her as her body presses into his, as her mouth opens for him, as she lets him taste her.

As she tastes him, warm, wet and familiar - oh, so familiar.

But familiar as he is, there is no doubt in Clarke's mind who she's kissing, who's holding her, who's sending her head spinning.

Because this man kisses like no immortal.

This man kisses like he understands the fragility of life, the moments lost and never regained.

Bellamy kisses like he knows what it is to walk the line of life and death, like he knows what it is to stand at the precipice of mortality.

His mouth is demanding, his hands hard, his body hot as he coaxes the fire in her into an inferno, nipping her bottom lip and soothing the sting with his tongue, hitching her higher against him, his hand shoved into her wet hair, demanding her response.

Clarke gives it willingly, her arms now locked around his shoulders, going up on her toes, giving him all her weight and meeting the demand of his mouth with her own.

Bellamy's arm tightens around her waist and the world becomes a blur as he spins her, walks her backwards until she hits something hard. His shoulder tenses and it's the only warning she has before he's lifting her to sit on the counter. She tears her mouth away, a gasping, startled laugh leaving her as the cold surface of the mirror hits her bare back.

Then Bellamy's there, moving in to stand between her legs, the heat of him against her inner thighs and his hand goes to the side of her neck, tilting her face down.

'Look at me.'

His voice is shredded and she meets his glittering eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly.

His pupils are blown, the black swallowing the brown. His face is hard, his jawline tight and he's looking at her like she's holding everything he is in her hands.

'Bellamy?' she whispers.

Relief flashes in his eyes.

She doesn't think about it but draws him back down to her, tangling her fingers in his hair. His lips slide over hers again and she gets lost in the heat of his mouth.

The taste of him is addictive.

It sears her and she moans, low and hoarse, when his hand in her hair fists, the other banding across her back, pulling her harder against him.

Her legs lock around his waist and when he grinds into her, mouth now at her throat, his name leaves her lips in a gasp.

It'll be so easy just to slip the knot on his towel and -

'Yo, Blake - whoa.'

Bellamy goes rock-solid under her hands.

Over his shoulder, Clarke meets Miller's wide eyes as he stands frozen in the doorway.

Shit.

Miller's eyes shoot to the floor. 'Uh.'

There's a hint of a smile on his face but mortification is starting to crack through Clarke's shock.

'What.' Bellamy snarls.

Clarke swallows as his voice vibrates against her neck and through her sensitive body. She still hasn't moved a muscle and he's still between her spread thighs, still hard against her, face still pressed against her throat.

'Chief wants to see you.' Miller says, eyes still on the floor. Then, lips twitching, 'Hey, Clarke.'

She glares at him.

'Give me a minute.' Bellamy bites out.

This time there's more than a hint of smile on the other Lieutenant's face. 'Yeah, no shit.' Miller mutters before he backs away, pointedly flipping the lock before he closes the door firmly behind him.

'Crap.' Clarke breathes out.

She lets him go and although Bellamy straightens, he doesn't move away. He stays where he is, between her thighs, arms braced against the counter, next to her hips.

'Straight talk?' he murmurs.

Clarke presses her lips together. She rather he just left her to deal with the mess in her head but he's right. So she nods. 'Please.'

Bellamy tilts his head until he's looking her in the eye. 'I want you.'

She breathes in at the bald statement, the heat in his gaze.

'I've wanted you since the day we met,' he continues quietly, holding her eyes, 'under me, riding me, in whatever way I could get you.'

He really needs to stop before she forgets what they're supposed to be doing.

'Is this talk,' she archly asks, 'or foreplay?'

Bellamy's grin flashes white. 'Too straight for you?'

He isn't but she can't help needling him. 'I'm bi.'

'Weren't you the one raging at the TV, just last week, that wanting a man doesn't make a bi woman any less bi?'

He remembered that?

She pushes the warmth aside. 'Oh, so now I want you?'

'Pretty sure that was my name you were moaning.'

Clarke blinks. Gives up and laughs, 'Alright,' she concedes, brushing a thumb over his smiling lips, 'I'll give you that one.'

'Thanks,' he mutters wryly but his smile doesn't slip, 'you're doing great things for my ego.'

'Pretty sure your ego is the last thing you need stroking.' she snorts.

He clears his throat, lips twitching and she thumps him lightly on the shoulder, heat in her cheeks.

It’s strange just how utterly broken the tension is between them with one kiss.

'Hey.' Bellamy whispers, eyes turning serious again, 'You gotta know I want you. Hell, the dreams alone were driving me crazy.'

'I can relate.' she says wryly.

Perhaps not in the same way but she knows.

But then Clarke looks at him - really looks at him - and although Bellamy is smirking, his eyes are soft and wistful and she sobers. Guilt lines the roof of her mouth. She knows what she's really doing - she's deflecting.

She's deflecting and covering it up with cute banter and sarcasm because, Bellamy was right that night, she's scared.

Scared of how she feels about him, scared of the dreams and what they might mean, scared of showing him her heart because it's broken and shrivelled and no one in their right mind would ever want it. She's scared and she's lying to herself and to him.

And Bellamy doesn't deserve it.

'I dream about you.' she confesses, lowering her eyes.

She's so determinedly staring at his shoulder blade that she misses him tensing in front of her.

After a pause, Bellamy asks, 'What do you mean?'

But Clarke is so lost in the memory of the dream, in the ghost of Vulcan's laugh, the feel of his hand cupping her cheek, that she doesn’t really register his words.

'Last night…,' she whispers, raising a hand to run her fingers down the curve of Bellamy’s shoulder, feeling him warm and hard against her palm. 'I saw you in my dreams again. It felt so real.'

'Clarke?'

She blinks when his hands come up to cup her face, lifting it towards him and breaking the spell.

'Where did you go?' he asks, soft, but his eyes have sharpened, 'You dazed out on me there.'

If only she could tell him everything.

'Sorry.' she tries to laugh it off and impulsively turns her head to press a kiss to his wrist. It just felt like the right thing to do and is rewarded by the sight of his pupils expanding.

'Bellamy -,' she stops, unsure what to say, what she wanted to say.

'Hey, whatever it is,' he prompts, 'it's okay.'

She almost smiles at that because if he knew the truth, he would not say that.

So she settles for a half-truth - a half-truth that is almost as scary as admitting the full truth.

'I feel something for you, okay?' she blurts out. 'I - I don't know. I just - I feel something for you.' she reaches up and places a hand on her chest, 'In here.'

God, she’s so done running from him.

Bellamy's brows shoot up in surprise. His mouth softens and he smiles, eyes going warm and liquid, the corners crinkling.

Then his grin fades and his eyes turn serious, 'Clarke, I fucked up, the way I was treating you.' Bellamy starts. His eyes search her face and he leans in, as if trying to say more than his words, 'I'm really trying not to fuck up again.'

She can taste the change in the air and knows what's coming then.

Sucking in a breath, Clarke places a hand on the side of his neck. 'It's okay.'

His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around her wrist, pressing her hand against his skin as if he wanted the imprint of her fingers in his flesh. He looks at her, dark waves falling into dark eyes. 'We work together.'

There it is.

It hurts but he's right. Paramedics have been transferred to other houses for less. And she doesn't want to be transferred. It's not just about leaving Bellamy, it's also about leaving Raven, Monty - everyone.

'You wanna do this,' Bellamy says slowly and her eyes widen, 'I'm in. I'll talk to Kane right now. It's your call.'

She stares at him, speechless. They're moving way too fast if Bellamy's talking like he already knows that it's going to be serious enough between them that he'll need to report it. But a part of her doesn't care. It doesn’t make sense and maybe there's some emotional transference but she can't help how she feels. If she's being honest, his words come as a relief that she isn't alone.

His offer is tempting.

She'll bet everything that Bellamy would go to bat for her, do everything he can to so that she can keep her place at 82. Because it will be her leaving if it goes wrong – he’s been at 82 longer than she has and there's no way a firehouse will lose one of its Lieutenants if the other party can be transferred instead.

'No.' Clarke whispers, throat hurting, not looking at him, 'I - I just can't risk it.'

The silence in the bathroom is deafening.

Maybe she’s given up part of her mask but that didn’t make everything magically better. They still have Cage to deal with and she’s going to see this through. And she can’t leave her friends, her family.

If she does this, if they officially disclose a relationship, the report will find its way into Cage’s hands and it’ll just become another strike against Bellamy, against the house.

She wants him – gods above, does she want him – but she just can’t risk this.

'Hey.' Bellamy's fingers tilt her chin back to him, and his eyes are softer than she has ever seen, 'It's alright.'

Is it?

Her head drops forward to rest on his shoulder, breathing in his scent.

It really doesn't make this any easier.

'We just grit our teeth and deal.' Bellamy says, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck, squeezing gently.

Clarke sucks in a shaky breath, straightening. 'We're adults. It should be easy.'

'I'll remind you that you said that.' he tells her with a sardonic twist of his lips. His eyes drop again to her mouth, swollen from his, and he exhales roughly, pushing off his hands to back up a few steps. 'This is going to be interesting.'

'If by 'interesting' you mean 'hell'.' she mutters.

Ignoring the chill that rushes in without Bellamy's body heat to warm her, Clarke re-adjusts her towel and hops down.

For a second, she hesitates, unsure of what to do.

Smile at him?

Shake his hand?

Walk away?

But then Bellamy catches her hand, draws her towards him. His head tilts down and her reaction is practiced, automatic, as if they had done this a hundred times before.

Going up on her toes, Clarke meets him halfway.

A brush of lips, soft and dry and almost chaste.

He lets her go, a strange smile on his face, and moves away.

Clarke stands there, watching his broad tattooed back in the mirror, watching him walk to the door, watching him open it and then she's watching the door close behind him.

Did she make a mistake?

Something tells her that she has.

Her eyes close.

She had never known the real taste of bittersweet, haunting and mocking, until Bellamy Blake left it on her lips.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so that part where Monty and Clarke are talking about BDSM? That was inspired by [ MissMarissa’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMarissa/pseuds/MissMarissa) fic [ 'Unexpected Explorations'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3754966/chapters/8335189). If you're intrigued or curious about the dynamics of a HEALTHY BDSM relationship rooted in trust, love and respect (or if you're into kinky Bellarke :D), she won't disappoint.


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